X-Wing: Sons of Liberty
by Agamar Rules The Galaxy
Summary: The Second Age of Rebellion has begun. Seven years after the Sith-Imperial War, the Alliance Remnant launches its campaign to end Darth Krayt's reign of terror. A new generation of aces clashes over the skies of Adumar as an Alliance strike team stands against the Sith Empire's might. Outnumbered and outgunned, the pilots of Red Flight soon learn that the only rule is to survive.
1. Dramatis Personae

**Dramatis Personae**

 **Red Flight**

Red 1: Captain Garik Antilles, Human male from Corellia

Red 2: Lieutenant Niklas Celchu, Human male from Coruscant

Red 3: Lieutenant Ike Janson, Human male from Taanab

Red 4: Lieutenant Aron Klivian, Human male from Ralltiir

 **Adumar**

Perator Klaus ke Teldan, Human male from Cartann

Princess Laina Alden, Human female from Thozzeling

Colonel Anselm ke Gotha, Human male from Cartann

Captain Amand ke Ratha, Human male from Cartann

Captain Anja ke Helveg, Human female from Cartann

Flight Officer Krista ke Hanadi, Human female from Cartann

 **Krayt's Empire**

Eshavar Kul, Voice of the Emperor

Darth Carnus, Human male from Naboo

Darth Terest, Muun male from Muunilinst

Lady Rhanah, Togruta female from Shili

Captain Remus Theron, Human male from Kuat

Legate Vesh Kor, Kel Dor male from Dorin

Commander Sarr Phennir, Human male from Bastion

Commander Aida Rashon, Human female from Bastion

Lieutenant Rell, Human male from Bastion

Saiga Auchs, Human female from Mandalore

Battlemaster Raum Skirata, Human male from Mandalore

Legio IV Ferrata, the Ironclad

Legio XII Victrix, the Victorious

Legio LIII Fulminata, the Thunderbolts

 **Crew of the _Spirit of Liberty_**

Captain Athena Iillor, Human female from Coruscant

 **Other Alliance personnel**

Viper, Human male from Corellia

Vagabond, Human male from Kuat

Vaquero, Human male from Tatooine

Captain Rashik, Chistori male spacer

255th Corellian Highlanders Division

51st Kashyyyk Shock Division

3rd Alliance Marine Reconnaissance Battalion

1st Hapan Volunteer Rifle Battalion

 **Shattered Clans**

Battlemaster Kheran Ordo, Human male from Mandalore

Atama Fett, Human male from Concord Dawn

Eirik Ordo, Human male from Mandalore

Haru Fett, Human male from Concord Dawn

Arteo Gann, Human male from Sanctobal

 **The Lost**

The Old Man

Whiskey Jack

Red


	2. Angel's Descent

1

Angel's Descent

 _When the end times near, the demon descends on bright wings, holding aloft a thunderbolt to rain death upon the land. -_ _Song of Heaven_ , unknown author, translated from Old Basic

* * *

'Storm's comin'! Storm a-comin'!'

Brask looked up at the sky as the first flakes of winter fell over Halbegardia. It was a cold and snowy day. He was a student in his last year of secondary school, on the way home after a long week. The weather seemed fine so far. The coot was just talking nonsense like he always did. Brask stopped at a street vendor's stand to buy a cup of hot tea, glancing at the adjacent news terminal. The holos depicted factories, stores, and well-dressed men and women in politics. Headlines covered distant events beyond Adumar's star system and new taxes imposed by the Perator or Empire. Nearby stores and restaurants finished up their afternoon cleaning, getting ready for the press of the weekend dinner traffic. Ninth Street was the heart of the capital's culinary scene. Soon, the quiet cobblestone sidewalks would be lit by neon and holo, filled with suits and wealthy tourists.

'Storm's comin'!' yelled the Old Man.

Nobody really knew what the Old Man's real name was, not even the local elders. All they knew was that he was, well, old. Older than the rest of them. He seemed like an off-worlder, speaking of distant stars and wars when pressed. He might once have been a mechanic or freighter captain. The heavy travel clothes and the broken tools on his belt hinted at a past life of working on space lanes. Why and how he ended up on Adumar was anyone's guess.

'Storm's comin'!' the Old Man barked again. 'And all of Adumar's in its path!'

Brask tried to ignore the geezer's mad ravings as he continued on his way home. Semester exams were coming up. He needed to study. Unfortunately, his academics would have to wait a few more minutes. The Old Man grabbed him by the shoulders.

'You see it too, don't you?'

Struggling, Brask tried and failed to break the Old Man's grip. 'I don't know what the hell you're t-'

'Of course you do! The signs are all around you!'

'The fuck are you on about, man?' Brask debated splashing his drink in the guy's face.

'I'm not crazy, kid,' the Old Man said. 'Not this time. Look in my eyes and tell me I'm lying.'

Brask looked. He saw that the other was completely serious. There was no hint of mania or trauma in the Old Man's eyes. They were intense, clear, and piercing, glittering with an intelligence built up by the passage of decades.

'W-what?' the kid stammered.

Pointing a grimy finger, the Old Man smiled. At last, someone who might listen. 'Look to the heavens, boy.'

Brask turned his gaze skyward. Normally, the city lights made it too bright to see the stars. Too much light pollution. And yet, in that instant, Brask saw a streak in the sky above. A shooting star?

* * *

In low orbit above Adumar, a trio of Imperial TIEs plied their patrol route.

'Unknown object detected, moving at high speed towards Halbegardia, sighted at grid seven-three-alpha-gamma.'

Sarr Phennir frowned as he looked at his sensor board. 'Can you boost the signal on your end? I'm getting nothing. See if we can get any more out of that reading?'

'One moment,' one of his wingmen said. 'Got it. Looks like a starfighter, unknown silhouette. It's not one of ours. Not getting anything from Adumari records, either.'

'Right,' Phennir replied. 'Form up. We'll pursue this interloper.'

Banking to port, the TIEs set a course for Adumar, weapons readied as they closed on the unknown starfighter. Clouds and snowflakes whipped past Phennir's viewport as they entered Halbegardian airspace. A new sensor reading blinked on his display.

'I'm getting sensor readouts from the craft,' he said. 'It's got us on targeting computers.'

'Hostile intent, sir?'

'Better to be safe than sorry.'

Phennir set his lasers to quad-link and took aim. It was too far for a lock, but he had confidence in his abilities. 'Target acquired.'

He pulled the trigger, sending a quartet of laser bolts toward the starfighter. Under most circumstances, it would have been a perfect shot. This time, however, Phennir's shot caught nothing but air as the unknown rolled hard to starboard. This guy was good. Before he could line up another shot, the enemy starfighter kicked up and K-turned on the spot, facing his flight group. An impressive trick. Even with shields and repulsors active, most starfighters would be hard-pressed to pull such a maneuver to interrupt planetary entry. Then the enemy ship's silhouette changed.

'What?' said one of his wingmen. 'The wings split?'

Phennir saw an alarm readout on his instrument panel. 'Massive energy spike! Break! Break!'

* * *

From the window of the passenger shuttle, Laina Alden watched the shooting star change course. She turned to her bodyguard, Ramsus, a gene-bulked giant of a man. His sheer size and thuggish features belied the startling intellect and undying loyalty he possessed, and most people thought him to be little more than a walking slab of muscle. A useful feature in some circumstances.

'Ramsus, are you seeing what I'm seeing?'

'Aye, Princess. Seems that meteor isn't quite your average meteor. Might be a starship of some sort, but I don't know of any with that sort of maneuverability, 'specially not during atmo entry.'

Laina frowned as she saw a brilliant flash engulf the shooting star. An explosion? Some odd form of radiation?

* * *

Garik Antilles calibrated his targeting computer, adjusting his aim for the sudden movement. 'Too far for regular lasers,' he muttered. 'Let's see how this HLC works, eh, buddy?'

His astromech, Spark, chirped in affirmative.

'Targets locked, s-foils set to combat mode. Commencing Operation NOVA.'

Two of the TIEs broke to port, trying to rush him while the third flanked to starboard. Garik took aim and pulled the trigger. His starfighter shuddered as its ventral heavy laser cannon fired. A great bolt of red energy lanced forth, vaporizing one TIE entirely and slagging half of the other one, sending the scraps careening down into the ocean below. Before he could reacquire, the third TIE roared past, scoring a glancing hit on his shields as it neared.

'Damn, this guy's fast!'

It quite clearly wasn't a standard TIE Predator. Painted solid red, the ship had maneuverability and in-atmo speed that far exceeded the standard Predator's capabilities. An Imperial Knight? Weren't they supposed to be with the Emperor-in-Exile? What was a Knight doing here on Adumar?

Questions for later. Garik pulled hard on the stick, breaking to port to dance with the new enemy starfighter. Even with inertial compensators set high, Garik felt the g-forces of his maneuvering, flight harness digging painfully into his shoulders as he turned. He and the TIE wove, turned, and twisted through the clouds, weapons cycling as target locks flickered on and off. Neither starfighter managed to score more than glancing hits. That is, until they started making mistakes.

Garik hit the brakes a hair too early, his shields popping as the TIE lanced his top starboard engine. Climbing, inverting, and K-turning, Garik went for a head-to-head with the sun at his back. Temporarily blinded, Phennir failed to see the flash of the enemy starship's laser cannons. The quad-shot ruptured his shields. Flicking the master arm switch, Garik followed up with a blast from the heavy laser cannon, scoring a glancing hit on the TIE's port wing panel. Even with a near-miss, the laser blast seared a sizable chunk off the TIE, throwing it off-balance and screwing its maneuverability. Phennir had no choice but to retreat.

'He's setting a course for Cartann airspace,' Garik muttered. 'Spark, damage report?'

The droid trilled a reply, its machine-cant translated on Garik's display: 'TOP STARBOARD ENGINE SAFELY DEACTIVATED. SEVERE LASER DAMAGE TO COOLANT LINES AND POWER CONVERTERS. I RECOMMEND AN IMMEDIATE LANDING UNDER STANDARD STEALTH PROTOCOLS.'

With its speed and acceleration, the TIE would easily outrun the damaged Alliance fighter. Plus, his objectives for this phase of the op were in Halbegardia, not Cartann.

'Alright, set a course for the Halbegardian capital city. We'll touch down in the woods a few kilometers to the north of that.'

* * *

It took a bit of doing, but Phennir managed to land safely at Cartann's main Bladedrome. Removing his helmet, he disembarked and donned a pair of sunglasses as he stepped into the Adumari afternoon sunlight. Eager Cartann techs raced to service the ace's craft as hauler droids towed the TIE off the runway.

Phennir grimaced. It was only a matter of time, really. The signs had been quite visible for years. Convoy ambushes in the Outer Rim, lightning raids on Koremar and Tesh'val II, riots on Corellia, the Mon Calamari situation-everything pointed to signs of a reinvigorated Alliance rather than the spasms of a battered corpse. Seven years of escalation-seemingly random, unconnected conflicts scattered across the galaxy, disguised as the simple outcries of a trillion beaten vassals. And these new starfighters were the latest in a series of these developments. He checked for eavesdroppers as he stepped into a corner and found none. Pulling out his commlink, he established a channel to the Star Destroyer _Invictus_.

' _Invictus_ , Phennir.'

'Phennir, _Invictus_. We read you.'

'Interrogative: have you received my flight recorder data?'

'Data inload successful, Commander.'

'Good. Have you analyzed the footage?'

'Still a work in progress, Commander. We haven't turned up much yet. The ship's not turning up on any of our files.'

'Give me what you have, _Invictus_. Does it correspond with any design techniques? Any familiar parts?'

'One moment.'

There was a pause as _Invictus_ ' intelligence officers consulted their starship databases, flipping through known Alliance starship classes.

'We may have a match, sir. Your attacker appears to follow Incom shipbuilding architecture and geometries. It's, ah, an old model, but it checks out. Looks like an-'

'An X-wing,' Phennir finished. Painted in deep Corellian green with gold-striped wingtips, the enemy starfighter cut an impressive and admittedly attractive figure during the dogfight. And its pilot wasn't too shabby, either. Rough around the edges, but Phennir sensed a natural talent and aggression in this one that far outstripped many of the supposed veterans among the Adumari. Yes, this one had potential.

'Um. Yes, sir. But it's not any of the old models. Power output, short-range jamming, and weapon load don't appear to correspond to any of the pre-Crossfire series.'

'Thank you, _Invictus._ Please advise. Should I inform the Adumari planetary guard?'

At that moment, the Star Destroyer's captain, Remus Theron, took over for the intel officer. 'Negative for now, Commander. We'll get in contact with NavCom first, see what their take on this is first. We don't want the Adumari guard doing anything stupid. Like panicking. Or getting themselves shot down more than usual. And for now, it appears to be just one starfighter. Not much of a threat to us right now.'

Not what he would have done. Keeping allies in the dark was rarely conducive to effective planning. And one starfighter could well be a serious threat. The right man in the right place at the right time could make all the difference in the galaxy. Still, he wasn't in command. And he probably didn't see the whole picture. 'Acknowledged, sir. I'll think of a cover story in the meantime.'

'Very good, Commander. We'll keep you informed of any changes to the intel lockdown. _Invictus_ out.'

The line went silent. Phennir looked up at the afternoon sky above southern Cartann. Brilliant gold and free of clouds, it was utterly unmarred save for the smoky trail his starfighter left on its descent. As the sun set over the horizon, Phennir knew that soon, the skies of Adumar would be criss-crossed by the contrails of fighters and missiles. And he knew, too, that he would meet that mysterious starfighter again.

History, after all, had a strange tendency to repeat itself in this galaxy.


	3. Contact

2

Contact

High above Eastern Halbegardia, a second starship made planetfall, resplendent in the colors of the old Alderaanian Guard. It soared through Halbegardia's twilit skies, little more than a red and white blur as it streaked low over the clouds to its pilot's designated landing spot. As expected, a warning tone rang in his ear as his astromech picked up someone trying to acquire him on targeting computers.

'New targets on sensors,' he muttered. Time to put this X-wing through her paces. 'Alright, then. Incom, don't let me down.'

Niklas Celchu redlined the throttle as a wing pair of Cartann Blade-50s rose up to meet him. Four J-99 Event Horizon engines flared to life, roaring like a triumphant apex predator as they took Niklas' X-wing to speeds that even TIE Predators could only dream of reaching.

'Attention unknown craft!' said one of the Blade pilots. 'This is Lieutenant Helmut ke Alzei of the Adumari Planetary Guard! What force trespasses in this airspace?"

They were already trying to acquire missile locks. No question there, that was hostile intent according to mission parameters. Yanking hard on the stick, Niklas responded by climbing, inverting, and diving, passing close enough to see the enemy pilots' faces. Wing-mounted autothrusters activated as Niklas maneuvered, setting off in quick, controlled burns as he turned back up to engage the two Blades. Target lock.

'Too slow,' Niklas muttered as the enemy craft turned to engage. Blades were sluggish craft and these guys clearly didn't have the reflexes or foresight to compensate. They seemed almost immobile to the X-wing jock as he vaped the lead fighter with a pair of well-placed quad shots. He finished off the second a few moments later, sending the fiery debris down to the earth. Just then, his sensors pinged a larger number of unknown signatures coming towards him. Reinforcements, no doubt. No problem, really. All part of the plan.

As the enemy fighters entered visual range, they attempted to hail him. Time to run. Niklas banked to starboard and flipped an arming switch on his control panel. He felt the need for _speed_. And speed was one thing this machine had in abundance. He hit an activator key and was wrenched back into his seat, flight harness digging into his shoulders as he engaged his X-wing's SLAM drive. In a split second, he was gone, too fast and too far for the enemy Blades' sensors to track.

* * *

The streets of Halbegardia's capital slowly filled up as dusk fell on the city. Residents fresh off work gathered in street-side cafes and restaurants. In days before the Cartann and Imperial takeover, people would have chatted about trivialities like gossip, local news, or the weather. Food and drink would have flowed freely as the bourgeois dipped into their generous earnings, hard-earned at the stock markets and factories. These days, though, talk was quieter. Customers were frugal, penny-pinching where they could. In hushed whispers, men and women talked worriedly about the new order. New taxes, new curfews, new disappearances, new military police patrols by the Cartann occupation. The bright neon-lit cheer of the city's commercial district was little more than a facade these days.

Disguised in Adumari street clothing, Garik nevertheless kept to side streets and back alleys. He was silently grateful for the fact that masks were chic again in Adumar's fashion industry. It made infiltration so much easier in these early stages. As was standard with Alliance special ops, most of his clothing was breakaway or fastened with velcro or zippers to ease disguise switching, too. Well, aside from the hat and scarf.

After a few minutes of trudging through poorly salted streets, Garik eventually arrived at the arranged meeting spot: a run-down tenement in the city's industrial district slums. Off to the side of the rusted chainlink fence, a sign indicated that the building was condemned to demolition within the next few weeks. He knocked on the door.

'How is Adumar these days?' someone on the other side whispered.

'Adumar sleeps,' Garik replied.

'For now,' the other said. The door opened.

The moment he stepped over the threshold, the door shut. He felt something poke him in the back.

'Goodness,' Garik said. 'You haven't even bothered to buy me dinner yet.'

'Eyes forward, hands where I can see them,' the doorman hissed. 'Any funny business and I put a bullet in your spine.'

No doubt, the man's slugger was fitted with a suppressor to keep things quiet. Made sense to stick with slugthrowers instead of blasters for stealth. Blaster suppressors were less effective and wore out far more quickly. They knew what they were doing. That, or their supply situation was worse than he thought. Best to cooperate.

The guard pushed him into a poorly-lit windowless room, where a few other rebel fighters were gathered.

'This the one?' asked one of the partisans.

'He spoke correctly,' said the doorman carefully.

'Good enough for now,' replied another. Judging by his slightly cleaner clothing, he was probably the leader of this cell. 'You, stranger. Who are you?'

'Captain Garik Antilles, Alliance Remnant,' the pilot said.

'Antilles, eh? I've heard of you. Word on the street is you never let your prey get away.' A bit hyperbolic. Garik still hadn't accounted for the red TIE. The leader asked, 'How many more of you are there?'

Garik looked at him and shrugged. 'I know of myself, three pilots, and a Naval Intelligence contact. Could be more, could be less. We weren't told everything, either.'

The door guard scoffed. 'The Alliance sends five people to liberate our world? Is this some sick joke?'

'Like I said, I don't know how many of us there really are,' Garik replied. 'And remember how many it took last time?'

'A New Republic capital ship and its entire starfighter complement, along with a united coalition of Halbegardia, Yedagon, and several other states. Don't be obtuse, Antilles. The feats of your forefathers mean nothing to us.'

'Look,' Garik said, 'I'm here to help. The old Rebel Alliance faced a situation like yours in a whole lot of cases. Worse, sometimes, seeing as all you have right now is Cartann rather than a full Imp government.'

'And in many of those cases, the local Rebel cell ended up exterminated,' the partisan leader. 'We need weapons, space superiority, an _army_. Not a handful of fighter jocks on a suicide mis-'

Just then, another rebel fighter burst into the room, out of breath and holding a blaster rifle.

'We've got incoming!' he yelled. 'Two walkers and two patrol speeders carrying infantry, ETA five minutes!'

The rebel leader cursed. 'What happened?'

'Raid went south,' the rebel grunt said. 'Half the team's dead. They captured some of the new guys. Must have talked.'

'Dammit, we don't have much anti-armor left. You guys know the drill. Antilles, you know your way around a firefight?'

'A thing or two, yeah,' Garik said. A mild understatement. Red Flight had gone through cross-training with Alliance commandos and marines to prep for this mission.

'Good. You're with the ground floor defense.'

Garik nodded. Nobody offered him a weapon. Alright, then. Just a blaster pistol, a knife, and whatever extra gubbins he'd brought from the X-wing. Time to see if that training was worth anything.

* * *

Phennir sat back and sighed, taking another sip from his glass of brandy. On his desk sat a chaotic array of shorthand notes, datapads, and rough sketches. Another X-wing sighting, this one vastly different from the starfighter that had so nearly shot him down. The first one, the green X-wing, had been an agile sniper judging by what little he could gather from his flight recorder. Scanner data also indicated the presence of proton torpedo launchers. A true space-superiority design if he'd ever seen one. In contrast, this new one was built more like an interceptor-maneuverability, acceleration, and speed that bordered on ludicrous, with knife-fight capabilities that could put the Empire's TIEs to shame.

Very little footage had survived the destruction of the Adumari response team. Their flight recorders were practically dust by the time they'd been recovered from the wreckage. Shame, Phennir thought. Less data to work with. ImpInt had decided that these new fighters were of little consequence-too expensive and high-performance to become standard-issue among Alliance fighter pilots. They had a point. SLAM systems and fighter-compatible HLCs tended to be notorious for their maintenance requirements and costs. Then again, the old Rebel Alliance had made do with similar resources and come out with starships that ultimately proved superior to Sienar's common frontline models. Many of the A-wings at the First Battle of Endor were hand-built and fitted with wooden furniture due to a lack of supply. The old K-wing, despite its short range and cost, went down in the history books as a truly terrifying and nigh unkillable flying tank. And due to the strategic importance of Adumar's industry, Phennir knew that the Empire would need an answer to these cutting-edge superfighters.

He poured himself another glass and pulled up his terminal's e-mail window. If ImpInt had its head up its own arse, maybe NavCom would have a bit more sense.

* * *

His pistol emptied, Garik ducked into a ruined storage closet to reload. Two cells left. Well, one. He was saving the absolute last to off himself if things went really, really far south. A quick glance at his surroundings showed him nothing of immediate value. A few cans of paint, some tins of industrial adhesive liquid, and some common cleaning supplies, none reactive enough to be converted into proper explosives.

Slotting his penultimate energy cell into place, Garik poked his head out and planted a pair of shots into the chest of another Cartann soldier. Off to his side, the Halbegardians' rocket team took position just outside the side door. The rocket tube's backblast was too much for indoor use.

'Clear!' the gunner yelled.

The loader moved to the side, out of the way of the launcher's rear port, and covered his ears. The first rocket was dead-on, impacting the nearest scout walker in the side. Though its armor tanked most of the damage, the explosion was enough to daze the pilot and knock the machine off-balance.

'Reload!'

The loader slammed another rocket-propelled grenade into the tube's rear port, tapping the gunner's shoulder to signal it was ready.

'Clear!'

They repeated the procedure. This time around, the rocket penetrated, blowing out the walker's cockpit and sending it tumbling in flames. Luckily enough, the force of the blast also knocked the last two Cartann infantrymen off their feet and out of cover, allowing the shooters on the upper floors to finish them off.

'One down! Reload!'

'Last one!' yelled the loader. 'Make it count!'

The rocket bearer shouldered the launch tube. 'Clear!' he shouted. The loader sidestepped to get clear as the gunner fired. Poorly constructed and maintained, the rocket went wide, pulling right and making salsa out of a pair of dead Cartann instead. Before they could get back into cover, the rocket team were perforated by a hail of return fire. Having neutralized the anti-armor threat, the Cartann mech pilot turned his attention to the rest of the building. Another rebel fighter died under the second walker's guns as it riddled the building's thin walls with laser fire. Garik had to do something quickly before the whole cell was wiped out.

He dipped the end of a signal flare in one of the tins of industrial adhesive and took off his right glove, flexing bionic fingers as he prepared to do something incredibly stupid. His flesh-and-bone hand readied his blaster as the enemy walker sidestepped to fire at a second-storey window. While its attention was elsewhere, Garik stepped out the side door. Taking aim, he planted a few shots on the war machine's side, scratching the paint and distracting the pilot. As the Cartann walker turned to fire on the source of the shots, Garik tossed the flare. It was right on the money. Thank goodness for cybernetic strength. Burning bright, the flare stuck to the walker's front viewport, blinding the pilot.

Garik broke cover moments before the walker returned fire, slagging the dumpster he had been using for cover. Using a ruined speeder hulk as a springboard, he jumped up and hauled himself onto the walker.

'The puppet Perator may rule with an iron fist, but I've got these gold fingers!'

Garik's hand glowed with an awesome power. Cooling vents opened, expelling heated air as his bionic arm's integral repulsor field kicked into gear. With a roar of effort, he punched his cyberarm into the walker's top access hatch and tore it clean off, yanking out the screaming pilot and throwing him to the ground. Let the Adumari rebels judge the man's fate. This was as much their fight as it was his. And since now was as good a time for showmanship as any, Garik stood tall, perched atop the empty walker, silhouetted against the city lights with his scarf blowing against the wind. Hey, a little bit of style goes a long way to inspiring the masses.

And surely enough, the surviving rebels let out a ragged cheer. The dead would be mourned later. This was a victory. Hopefully the first of many.

During the mission briefing, the Intel agent said his mission was, for all intents and purposes, to be a hero straight out of the old-time holovids. Cheesy, larger-than-life, and highly visible. Inspire the people, Garik had been told. Stir the fire in their hearts. This was no holovid, Mister Intelligence Spook. Right now, Garik felt like the real deal.


	4. Don't Fear the Reaper

3

Don't Fear The Reaper

All the lights in the sky were enemies. In the heavens above a distant world, titans clashed, the night illuminated by bright flashes of red and green light as Star Destroyers and Mon Cal battleships did battle. Garik broke into a hard turn, sticking on his flight lead's tail as they dove into a mass of Imperial starfighters. There was no need to aim as they opened fire. There were so many targets that it was nearly impossible to miss.

'Red Three, hyperspace jump initiated!'

'Four, jumping!'

'Five, entering hyperspace!'

'Two,' Red Leader said, 'time for you to go.'

'What about you, Lead?'

'Just go. I'll be right behind you, Kid.'

Garik cursed. 'You need someone watching your back, Lead.'

'I'll be fine. Go now, while we've got them in disarray.'

Breaking away from the fight, he made for the asteroid belt at the system's edge before starting his hyperspace jump prep. As Spark initiated the countdown, warning lights flickered on Garik's display.

'Shit, two enemy starfighters on my six! Controls are locked up, I'm stuck in the jump sequence!'

'Damn! Hold on, Kid, I'm coming to you!'

The warning lights changed from yellow to red. Target locks. 'Two to Lead, they've got me bracketed! I'm a lost cause, now get the hell out of here!'

'Keep it together, Two, just a little more-'

An alarm rang. On his short-range sensor display, Garik saw two white lines streaking towards his X-wing. They'd fired. He braced for impact-

* * *

-and found himself bolt upright in his bedroll. Nothing but the wake-up alarm on his commlink. A dream. Just a dream. He wasn't on Fresia anymore. He was on Adumar. Garik mopped the sweat from his brow and got to work cleaning up his campsite.

After last night's battle, the rebel cell had been forced to scatter and relocate. The leader had told him they'd contact him again in a couple of days at another spot in the slums. Thankfully, they let him take what spare parts he could from the destroyed vehicles and the condemned apartment's storage before leaving. It wasn't Incom tech, but it was enough to make his X-wing airworthy again.

'Spark, hold down the fort a little bit longer, alright? Got a meeting with Two. Then we'll be airborne again.'

* * *

While the sun was just beginning to rise over Halbegardia, it was already midday in Yedagon. Like Halbegardia, Yedagon had been occupied by Cartann and Imperial Army garrisons. The fierce fighting there had all but ruined the once-proud nation's infrastructure and industry, leaving it a husk of its pre-war self. The occupation government's refusal to rebuild all but the most essential utilities only made things worse. Where the Halbegardian people were able to live at least a semblance of normal life, the civilians of Yedagon faced an existence almost as miserable as that of an Imperial penal colony. Meanwhile, the military and the government lived like kings by comparison. This contrast was especially marked at Khalin Air Force Base, situated in Yedagon's frigid north.

Khalin AFB was one of the few places in Yedagon where the plumbing, electricity, and food remained in good condition. The home of numerous proud aces of the war, Khalin was appropriately luxurious. Exercise facilities, stores run by civilian contractors to sell goods imported from the fatherland, and even Cartann restaurants could all be found within the base walls. It was its own self-contained city and a symbol of the occupation government's might. Unfortunately for the base occupants, years of peace and sloth had made them soft.

'Getting a bit of a flicker on the sensors,' said one of the techs in the air control tower. He slapped the side of his computer terminal to no effect.

'Probably just a malfunction,' said the base commander. 'The new operating system needs some bug fixes.'

'Hm. I guess-'

Whatever the sensor officer had to say was cut off by what he saw next: four white lines appeared on the screen from an empty spot, spreading out and streaking fast toward the base.

'Incoming high-speed signatures!'

Before he could complete the sequence to activate Khalin's anti-air defenses, four of the base's hangars erupted into flame. Too slow. Air raid alarms rang belatedly across the base.

'Where is it?' the commander demanded. 'Who's attacking us?'

'I can't see anything!' the sensor officer complained. 'Nothing on my screens!'

The question was answered seconds later when a black starfighter buzzed the tower, causing the commander to spill his coffee all over himself. As it flew past, the control tower crew only caught a passing glimpse of the details on the craft-rakish bright yellow wingtips, a golden canopy, a stylized grim reaper emblem on the sides.

'It's an X-wing!' exclaimed one of the other tower staff.

In his starfighter, Ike Janson grinned and climbed, rolling for show before diving back for a gun run on the airbase's fuel trucks, left fully loaded and neatly lined up outside the hangars. As a pair of Cartann Blades tried to pull onto the runway, he yawed to starboard and slagged them before climbing again. His astromech beeped a warning about the anti-air systems.

'Yeah, yeah,' he said. 'That's enough showboating for one day.'

As Khalin AFB's SAM batteries came online, Janson popped flares. Before the defenders could reacquire their target, he was gone, his X-wing a sensor ghost once more.

* * *

Aboard _Invictus_ , Commander Phennir sorted through the most recent files on the new X-wings. One had an HLC and another had a SLAM system. A few scattered reports from Yedagon's occupation force also mentioned something about a black starfighter. Unfortunately, the Adumari weren't anywhere as quick as ImpInt when it came to compiling combat data and footage. Two, possibly three X-wing sightings so far, all of completely different starfighters with completely different capabilities. And if there were three X-wings, there would almost certainly be a fourth high-performance fighter with its own unique loadout and role.

He keyed his desk terminal's commlink, contacting the ship's main Intelligence representative. 'Agent Jenner, it's Phennir. Do you have any information on the Battle of Fresia?'

'I'll see what we have, Commander,' Jenner replied. 'Anything specific to narrow the search?'

'I'm looking for footage and analyses during the last two hours of the battle. Specifically, regarding the Alliance starfighter defense. Any additional data taken from the files Incom left behind would be appreciated as well.'

'Roger that. Give me a moment to put together and e-mail a folder.'

'Thank you, Agent,' Phennir said. 'If you get a chance to run through ImpInt's main archives, please send me whatever else is relevant. You have my security clearance data.'

'That I do, Commander. Anything else?'

'None yet. Phennir out.'

A few minutes later, an alert pinged on his terminal. As he skimmed through the folder's contents, Phennir started putting the pieces together. He called up _Invictus'_ comm section.

'Phennir to Comms. I'm putting in a call request for Sienar Fleet Systems' R&D Division. If the Captain green-lights the request, tell Sienar's eggheads to be ready to take notes.'

* * *

'A bit fancy for a meeting place, isn't it?'

Niklas sighed. 'It's also one of the few places not frequented by unsavory types.'

Garik took a seat across from his wingman. It was a quiet, back-alley cafe on the edge of the city's commercial district. Run by an Ithorian and largely populated by other off-worlders, the Blue Moon Cafe was one of only a handful of on-world establishments left alone by Cartann authorities. In the Blue Moon's case, it was mostly because the food wasn't all that compatible with Adumari tastes. Most expats on Adumar were stranded travelers, left on-world after the Empire took over. Their Alliance-issued passports and documents were no longer any good. Imperial-issued paperwork was also increasingly tough to secure.

'I'm surprised,' Niklas said, pausing to help a waiter droid arrange their food and drinks. 'Someone managed to put you out of commission so early in the game?'

'I got careless,' Garik replied. 'And he was good. Really good. Red starfighter.'

Niklas took a sip of his tea. 'Knights?'

'Maybe,' Garik said, taking a bite out of a pastry. 'But what would Knights be doing here, of all places?'

'Well, there's only one other possibility. The Red Comet.'

Aside from the Imperial Knights, only one other Imp pilot in the galaxy was allowed to fly craft painted Bloodstripe red: Commander Sarr Phennir. It was a mark of skill, a badge of pride for a man widely regarded as the galaxy's current Ace of Aces. As the leader of the infamous 181st Fighter Group, Phennir had chosen Empire over Emperor, breaking the decades-long friendship between his family line and the Fel Dynasty. Though some of the 181st had chosen to follow Emperor Fel, the majority of the unit's veterans remained loyal to their commander. Still, Adumar seemed was only really strategically important for Alliance military doctrine. To the Imps, it was a low-priority backwater. Logically, elite fighter units like the 181st would be assigned to places like the Core, Bastion, Kuat, or the Hydian Way.

'What would he be doing on Adumar?' Garik asked, eyebrow raised.

'Makes sense, in a way. Adumar's got a culture that's all about piloting and honor. Seems like a choice posting for the guy.'

'Point. Either way, my ship's all fixed up. Ready for another run?'

'Not yet. I've got living accommodations set up, but we still need to meet our contact. An expat bar on Fifth in a couple of hours. One question, though. What are you going to do if he _does_ show up on our sensors?'

'We'll cross that bridge when we get there.'

Niklas frowned. 'I'm serious here, Garik. We need to put our safety and the mission first. Now's not the time to go looking for revenge. Not when we're still strapped for parts and support, and certainly not before we've reunited with the others.'

Garik's tone wasn't one of total agreement. 'Alright, alright. If he shows up, we'll scatter and run.' He signaled the waiter. 'Check, please.'

* * *

In the gutters of Halbegardia's capital, the Old Man awoke with a start. The burning was even worse now. He tried to remember what had set the fire in his blood, but he couldn't. Meds. He needed meds. With a groan, he got out of his ratty old bedroll. He grumbled a few choice words as he rifled through a duffel bag. It was mostly filled with junk accumulated from his travels. A holo of people he'd forgotten. A few parts for the old tools he kept around (none of which were the parts he needed to fix them). Some shiny baubles that might have been precious among the peoples of distant stars. Eventually, he found a plastic cylinder of painkillers. They were running low. He needed more and more every day to ease the pain.

Problem was, the painkillers only worked on the burning. They couldn't take away the voices. Nothing could take them away.

 _Wake up!_ they said. _Remember!_

 _I'm awake, goddammit,_ he grumbled inwardly. _Least I think I am_.

He pinched himself. Yep, awake. But what was he supposed to remember? He'd forgotten a lot of things in his long life. There was a big blur in his memories. He remembered hitching a ride on a shitpile freighter as a mechanic, struggling to make ends meet while smuggling cargo to obscure Mid- and Outer Rim worlds like Cerea, Rachnera, and Suu.

Before the war began, his crew had stopped on Adumar to pick up a load of cargo. When the Empire showed up, the ship got impounded then scrapped after the Imps realized it was totally worthless even for salvage. He never saw the other crew again after that. Given their criminal records, they were probably dead. Not this Old Man, though. Blank slate. Or at least, that's what they saw when they checked on his ID. A fake identity for a man who couldn't remember his real name.

He dry-swallowed the painkillers and slumped against the hulk of a broken-down speeder. Scavengers had picked it clean of machinery months ago. Now it was as empty as his own head. Fitting, really. He looked up at the skies as evening fell. Even with the city lights, he could see them clearly: four stars. Four stars for four riders. Green, red, black, and white. Four sons from four suns. Fab, fantastic four. The number of an Emperor.

A strange picture at first glance, a troubling picture on closer inspection. There was an empty seat at the table. A missing link. There had always been a fifth, but now there was not. Five was alive. Four was death. It was wrong. It was all wrong.

Hauling himself up, the Old Man gathered up his things. He needed to find them. But first, he needed to find something to replace his rapidly dwindling painkillers. He laughed bitterly. How far he had fallen. He knew his past had been something to be proud of, even if he couldn't remember _what_ he'd done. The time before his freighter crew days. Now look at him. A tired relic scrabbling in the dirt for his next fix, little better than the average slumdog druggie.

The clock was ticking. He needed to find them quickly. Warn them of the dangers, make the path safe. Otherwise, they would all die here, forgotten under an alien sun far from home. Death wasn't the problem. Death was a part of the cycle, but what he feared was what the Sith and the Empire would do to them afterwards.


	5. White Reflection

4

White Reflection

Zam's Bar was one of the few expat bars still in operation on Adumar. Located in the heart of Halbegardia's capital region, the bar made for a convenient meeting spot for both newcomers and stranded spacers. The establishment's refined elegance and glamorous decor called back to a simpler, happier time, and its clientele were only too happy to keep it afloat by paying for its premium-priced drinks and food. Dark wood, sensuously dimmed yellow lights, and a selection of fine imported spirits all gave the place an air of luxury unavailable in the rest of Cartann-occupied Halbegardia. Its musicians changed often, with genres ranging from modern hits to jazzy and poppy classics to good old rock and roll. At the moment, a singer was in the middle of a decent cover of "Interstellar Flight."

Garik and Niklas took their seats in front of the bartender and ordered some drinks.

'Whyren's green label, neat,' Garik said.

'A dry martini,' Niklas said. 'One. In a deep sparkling wine goblet.'

'Sure thing, sirs,' said Zam the bartender.

'Just a moment. Three measures of Qui-Gon Gin, one of Han Vodka, half a measure of Kina Margath. Shake it very well until it's ice-cold, then add a thin slice of citrus peel. Roonan lemon, preferably. Got it?'

'Certainly, sir.' The barman seemed pleased with the idea.

'Hell of a drink,' said Garik.

Niklas shrugged. 'If I've got to concentrate, I try not to have more than one drink before dinner. But I'd rather it be large, strong, cold, and well-made. Small portions suck, especially if they taste bad.'

Raising an eyebrow, Garik asked, 'You make that bev up yourself?'

'No,' Niklas confessed. 'Got it from a novel I read.'

These days, medical science had advanced to the point that a simple liver upgrade was chump change, even for middle-class civilians. One drink wouldn't compromise mission capability. Their contact was an agent working under the alias of Vera Dardenne, a lounge singer from the Mid-Rim. The two pilots would wait at the bar and when her performance was done, Miss Dardenne would take a seat next to them and they'd exchange code words. The challenge was "celestial" and the response was "shuffle." Not entirely sure how those two words matched up, but maybe that was part of the secrecy. As the duo sipped their drinks, a new singer took the stage.

'Think that's our contact?' Niklas muttered.

'I hope so, man. I hope so.'

Tall, blonde, with curves that could rival a Mon Cal starship, the new singer drew the eyes of everyone in the building. Even the girls. Her black dress glittered like a starfield. Long black gloves and a simple silver necklace gave it a touch more class, while a side slit below the waist showed off an almost scandalous amount of leg. To top things off, there appeared to be some sort of weak anti-gravity effect in her clothing, since a few stray locks of her artfully unkempt hair moved as if they were underwater.

It was going to be a while before the new singer's gig was done, so the two pilots got comfortable and enjoyed the show.

* * *

The wind picked up in the city's snowy streets. Buttoning up his coat, the Old Man trudged through the half-melted slush of the poorly salted back alleys. Snowfall wasn't so bad. It was the wind chill that would kill you out here. His breath clouded in the air. Idly, he noted that it almost looked like the departure of a soul from its host body.

Despite the cold, the lone vagabond still had to wipe the sweat off his brow. He was burning up inside, and the pain was only getting worse. At least he was almost at his destination. Carefully, he ascended the icy steps that led into Whiskey Jack's abode. Compared to the shitty shanties and rusty freight containers used by other poor folk, the rat-infested brewpub Jack operated was a palace. It had lights, a working heater, and plumbing. It smelled like someone had died recently, but otherwise, it was clean enough for Halbegardia's poor. Jack didn't actually make whiskey (or whisky, as the Corellians insisted on spelling it). Not anymore, anyway. Quality ingredients were expensive and shitty whiskey was a crime against sapient life. These days, he fermented and distilled a variety of cheaper stuff. Bum wines, prison ale, sawdust spirit, and all that. And he was one of the few brewers in the slums who made potable stuff rather than horrid concoctions infused with methanol and antifreeze.

'Stargazer,' Jack said. 'Fancy seeing you here. Thought you were on meds. Booze don't mix well with meds of any sort.'

The Old Man shrugged. 'Used 'em all up today. Downed the last couple of pills this afternoon. Need something to fill in for the painkillers now.'

Jack frowned. 'Most berks usually hit the bottle to feel a little warmer in this weather, you dig? 'Sides, you need a doctor, not a brewman.'

Shaking his head, the Old Man sighed. 'Don't trust the doctors around these parts. Not since the Empire and Cartann took over. And you owe me for last week.'

'Alright, alright,' Jack said, relenting. The old stargeezer had helped talk a bunch of angry drunks down the weekend before. Jack could barely afford to keep the electricity running, let alone cleaning up after a brawl. 'Let nobody say that Whiskey Jack never pays back a debt. I'll make you something special. First, though, Whiskey Jack's gonna need ingredients. Pack your gear, soldier. We're going on an adventure.'

Jack picked up a ratty old backpack and blaster and led the way out of his run-down establishment, flipping the window sign to the closed position. It was the last time the sign would ever swap faces.

* * *

White as freshly fallen snow, the fourth X-wing roared down into Yedagonian airspace on a course aimed at a flight of Cartann Blade-50s. Aron Klivian slowed his breathing and did his best to loosen up in the cockpit's tight confines. Opening round jitters. Nothing to worry about, he told himself. All systems nominal. Shields up, guns hot, and engines at full power. Time for the show.

Feathering the stick up, he adjusted his aim on the foremost fighter, leading the target.

'I am a leaf on the wind,' he muttered.

Laser lock.

'Watch how I soar.'

He pulled the trigger, swooped down past the Blades, then climbed hard. As he looked back, he saw the flight leader's craft go down like a brick as the surviving fighters gave chase. Pulling hard to starboard, he flicked the ordnance toggle and pulled the trigger again.

'The enemy craft's jettisoned something,' said one of the Blade pilots.

'Looks like fuel tanks. Stay on him.'

Aron smirked as his jettisoned cargo flared to life. The two 'fuel tanks' he'd dropped were parasite droids fitted with thrusters and autoblasters, normally attached to recharge racks on his X-wing's underside. As the drones acquired targets, the enemy Blade pilots panicked and broke away, maneuvering to throw off the new bogeys. Pulling hard on the stick, Aron turned to target one of the Blades. Distracted by one of the drones, the enemy pilot failed to dodge in time. Aron sent him down in a ball of fire then moved on to the next hostile.

'Shit! What are these things?' exclaimed one of the Cartann pilots.

The Blade-50 wasn't an agile craft, even back when it was new. Aron's X-wing easily kept pace with the Cartann fighter, pushing it into ever more stressful maneuvers until the pilot tired himself out. Eventually the Blade pilot straightened out for a hair too long. Another target lock, another kill. Meanwhile, the autoblaster drones had finished off the final Blade with sheer weight of fire. Though they didn't pack much punch, the little droids had fire rate, accuracy, and maneuverability to make up for it.

As the dust settled, Aron checked his sensors. All clear so far, but just to make sure he was safe, he broke away from the combat airspace and aimed for someplace secluded. Somewhere he could lay low until he met up with Janson and got his next objective.

* * *

The crowd applauded as the singer finished up a jazzy number. Her gig done, she stepped down from the stage to let the next act perform and made her way to the bar, where she sat next to Garik.

'An Old Fashioned for me, please,' she said. Turning to the pilots, she asked, 'So, are you boys from around these parts?'

'Nope,' Garik replied. 'Traders out of the Core.'

'Figured you'd be from space, what with that celestial body of yours.'

Wow. Talk about awful pick-up lines. 'Really?' Garik took a sip from his drink to buy a second to think of a reply that wasn't completely stupid. 'Most girls tell me I'm pretty average-looking. The kind of guy who'd get lost in the shuffle.'

A flash of recognition momentarily crossed Vera's face. 'Tell you what. How about we go someplace a little more, ah, private?'

'I know just the place,' Niklas replied.

All three of them downed their drinks, put their payments under their glasses, and left. They took a long route back to the flat Niklas had acquired for the team, doubling back and circling a few times to throw off any potential tails while throwing around cheap small talk. After an hour of this, they were home free. As the automatic door slid shut behind them, Niklas reactivated the proximity stun mines around the door frame. After the three were satisfied that the place hadn't been bugged while they were out, they got to talking.

'So,' Vera said, 'looks like you guys made the headlines.'

'A flashy entrance was part of the mission objectives, yes,' Niklas said. 'Draw the eyes of the people to the heavens, rekindle the memories of the last Adumari war.'

'It was,' replied Vera. 'And you did a pretty good job of it. The Halbegardian media is starting to question Cartann's supremacy. Obviously, we need to push things a little bit more. That's where I come in.'

Vera pulled a datapad out of her bag and passed it to Garik. 'Here's a map of enemy military bases in Halbegardia. You won't be able to take them all on alone, so you'll need to build up some trust with the local rebel cells, too. In the meantime, though, I've taken the liberty of highlighting the most lightly defended areas. These are ripe for the picking, even without much rebel support. I'll do what I can to keep tabs on enemy troop movements as you work, too, so expect the map to change every now and then.'

'Wonderful,' Garik said. 'Are these just Cartann forces? What about the Empire's forces?'

'Also included in those figures. If you tab over to the next page, I've also taken the liberty of compiling a list of notable enemy officers and aces plus their IFF data.'

'A hit list,' Niklas concluded.

Vera nodded. 'Pretty much. Load the IFF tags into your fighters' computers and your HUDs will mark HVTs automatically. Take them out whenever you can. The longer you leave an enemy ace alive, the more dangerous he'll get.'

'Obviously,' Garik said. 'Any word on Reds Three and Four?'

'Successful insertions,' Vera said. My sources in Yedagon tell me they've both hit their initial targets. They're just a little bit behind you guys.'

'Great,' said Niklas. 'Here's to hoping we see them on the other side.'

* * *

Campion-on-Therral Manufactory had been abandoned since the Cartann takeover, closed down after its owners were no longer able to pay the additional fees imposed by the occupation government. Since then, however, nobody had come to clean up the biomedical chemicals and stims left stored there. Nobody had ever bothered to guard the place either. Anyone stupid or desperate enough to mess with the almost certainly expired drugs inside would die of fatal poisoning in a few hours and society wouldn't be worse off for it.

Naturally, that made it the perfect place for Whiskey Jack to find the last of his 'ingredients.' Some of the basics had been easy enough to procure on the streets or with cash taken from panhandling. They'd masqueraded as old war veterans down on their luck.

'Alright,' Jack said, shoving aside a fallen file cabinet, 'we're in. I'll search the west end of this dump, Soldier. Go check out the east side, yeah?'

He handed the Old Man a list written down on a crumpled piece of paper. The Old Man shrugged and turned his flashlight east. After a few steps, though, he stopped and shined his light on the list.

'Wait a minute, Jack, you've spelled-'

As the Old Man turned, he saw nothing and heard nothing. Wherever Jack was, he was too far or too distracted to reply. With an exasperated sigh, the Old Man carried on into the yawning dark.

'Dammit.'

The place smelled like a sepulcher. It was as quiet as one, too. Slowly, he crept forward until he reached a glass door. Looked like the entrance to one of the labs. No key cards or any visible way to slide the door open. He picked up a potted plant and hurled it through.

'Too late to worry about alarms now,' he muttered, crunching the shattered glass beneath his boot. Quietly as he could, he picked the locks on the drawers and cabinets, rifling through and shining the light on the labels. The hell were these things, anyway? Half of this crap had scientific nomenclature he couldn't even begin to understand. Nanotiberide Blue? Melarrakite? Dilithium Roddenberyl? Necrodermis? The fuck was all this?

'They're coming for you,' said a voice.

Whirling around, the Old Man drew his blaster. Behind him sat an old astromech painted white and red. An R5 unit, if he remembered correctly. How long had it been since he'd last seen an R5? And what was it doing here?

'They're coming for you,' the droid beeped again.

Wait a minute. 'How can I understand what you're saying?' the Old Man mused. 'And more importantly, _who_ is coming for me?'

'No time to explain,' the droid replied. 'Bag everything you can and run. Your rendezvous point with your partner will be safe. Just run now.'

'The hell? How am I supposed to trust you?'

'Your window of opportunity is shrinking. In five Coruscant minutes, forty-three seconds, a fireteam of soldiers will find you here and shoot you.'

What the hell. First, voices in his head. Then, a random clairvoyant astromech. What next? A weapon to surpass the Death Star? Fuck it. Breaking into this place was a stupid idea anyway. Stuffing as many bottles as he could into his bag, the Old Man finished up and made like a librarian. He booked it.

'You'd better be right about this, Red,' the geezer growled.

'Into the box.'

Without hesitation, the Old Man grabbed a cardboard box and hid underneath it. Not long after he did so, he heard footsteps. No chatter, no sounds of moving machinery. Organics, then, probably fully armored and communicating with hand signals or with deactivated helmet speakers. After a few minutes, the footsteps passed.

'Clear.'

Quiet as he could, the Old Man removed the box and vacated the premises, sticking to the shadows as he hurried back to Jack's pub. All the while, the lonely droid kept watch until he was out of sight.


	6. Daybreak's Bell

5

Daybreak's Bell

The sun rose over Halbegardia's snow-capped mountains. Glaciers glittered as the first rays of morning light spread to the valleys below. A light bit of cloud cover sat overhead, bringing yet another winter snowfall. And amid the peaks, two X-wings raced to catch their prey.

'It's starting to come down,' Niklas muttered, taking note of the first flakes passing his cockpit.

'Testing, testing,' Vera said, hastily setting up a secure comm line several kilometers south of the engagement zone. 'This is Red Eye. Good to see you boys managed to get up. Red One, Red Two, maintain present course.'

'This is Red Two, roger that.'

Checking her probe droids' readings, Vera updated Red Team's tactical displays. 'Bearing 315. Cartann bombers and escorts approaching. Force size within acceptable parameters, looks like. Green light to engage.'

'Nobody wants to bail out into a mountain of ice,' Garik said. 'We're counting on you, Red Eye.'

Vera responded, 'Roger that. Enemy craft's closing in.'

'Lasers only, Red Two,' Garik ordered. 'Save your ordnance for now. You'd better have that coffee ready and waiting, Red Eye.'

'Only if you both make it through this alive,' Vera quipped, a slight smile on her face as she enjoyed a hot mug of the stuff. No doubt, the boys were feeling quite irritated and chilly up there.

'Be ready to brew up,' Garik said. 'We'll be back before you know it.'

Banking to port, the X-wings climbed and set s-foils to attack position. If Vera's intel was right, then this sortie would be a turkey shoot. And back in her tent, Vera got comfortable. Out here in the space sticks, watching a good dogfight was the closest thing to entertainment she was going to get for a while.

* * *

It started out as a routine flight. A shakedown run to get the bomber jocks' feet wet while they acclimated to combat conditioons. Arranged in a standard diamond formation, the bombers made up the core of the group as Blades ran escort duty. Their target was Imera, a town suspected of housing Halbegardian rebels and rebel sympathizers. A ground force was deemed an insufficient display of force by Occupation Command. Airstrikes, the brass believed, were a far more effective method if forcing the locals into line. Current flight statistics indicated that they were an hour from the target zone.

'All units, fuel check,' said the bomber flight's commander.

' _Steel Rain_ here,' said the second bomber's comm officer, 'fuel levels green.'

' _Gray Pulsar_ , tanks at seventy-five percent.'

' _Retribution_ , fuel levels acceptable.'

'Skyhammer Flightknife here, looking good so f-' The escort flightknife leader paused. 'One moment. All units, be advised, we have unknowns incoming at high speed from the southeast.'

'Halbegardian craft?' the bomber leader asked.

'Negative, sensor silhouettes and flight speeds don't match up with known Halbegardian fi-'

The flightknife leader's response was cut off as a great spear of light annihilated his craft. His Blade's detonation was visible all the way back in the bomber formation. A second bolt vaped Skyhammer Three.

'Break! Break!' the bomber commander yelled. 'Get this tub's guns active now!'

* * *

Garik mentally tallied another mark on his kill board as he shot a third Blade out of the air. Peering through his targeting scope, he yawed carefully to starboard, leading a pair of Blades as the HLC recharged.

'Steady,' he muttered. 'Steady.'

RECHARGE COMPLETE, Spark announced. RECHARGE COMPLETE.

'Bang.'

He reached out and touched two more enemy fighters, slagging the wingpair. They shouldn't have bunched up like that.

FOUR NEW INCOMING CRAFT, Spark beeped, marking the new targets on his sensor board. They came in from above, diving at high speeds to intercept the X-wings. The team flying top cover had finally decided to respond.

'Red Two, the newcomers are yours,' Garik said, pushing his targeting scope aside as he closed to knife-fight distance. 'I'll dance with the rest of the escorts. After that, we take out the bombers.'

'Roger,' Niklas replied.

The X-wings split up, Niklas climbing while Garik pushed ahead for the joust. Four Blades. As they closed, Garik set his crosshairs over the closest fighter. They were still beyond target locking distance but it wasn't too hard to line up a shot. He steadied his breathing, feathered the stick a hair to port, and pulled the trigger twice.

Three Blades. The lead fighter went down in flames. As the wingmen loosed their missiles, Garik rolled and dodged, just barely managing not to trigger the missiles' proximity fuses as they zipped past. Then the head-to-head was over and the real dogfight began.

* * *

'He's coming on on our left!' yelled one of the Cartann pilots.

'Shit, this guy's fast!'

Niklas' X-wing shot past a wing pair of Blades, little more than a red blur in the sky as he flew at speeds no Adumari craft could match. He pulled back on the stick, sending his fighter into a steep climb like a homesick angel before looping back down, maxing out the throttle as he opened fire on the pursuing Blades. One of the fighters dropped, sniped in the cockpit. A second Blade began trailing smoke. His shields took a glancing shot, dropping to ninety percent as he passed the Cartann craft. As the Blades turned to get a bead on him, Niklas pushed his starfighter's limit even further, boosting and evading before pulling a starboard Segnor loop. Yawing a hair to port, he pulled the trigger, vaping two more of the Blades. The smoking craft had retreated, pulling away from the furball. He wiped it from his targeting display.

His astromech, Glint, beeped in a questioning tone.

'Re-mark him as hostile if he comes back to fight,' Niklas said. 'Right now, though, he's not a threat. We have bigger fish to fry.

On his display, one of the bombers' sensor signatures disappeared.

'And speaking of which, it look like Red Leader's gotten started without us.'

He inverted and dove, heading for the bomber formation at full burn.

* * *

'A total massacre,' Rashon muttered.

Phennir snorted in derision. 'No surprise. Sluggish Blades and Hammers up against two experimental superfighters? I'm surprised one managed to get away at all.'

'They're good,' Rell said. ' _Very_ good.'

The three Imperial aces sat around a hololith table, analyzing the latest combat footage taken from the sole survivor of a Cartann task force. Datapads, notebooks, and all manner of writing utensils sat scattered in front of them.

Rashon smiled coldly. 'These are the same pilots who vaped you?'

'The green X-wing, yes,' Phennir said irritably. 'I haven't fought the red one. And the fight was a stalemate. He got lucky. That's all.'

Rashon wasn't too convinced. 'Sure.'

Commander Aida Rashon, callsign 'Monarch,' was one of the other aces assigned to Adumar's Imperial delegation. She had been a member of the 705th Fighter Wing during the war, but orders from the top had separated her from her old unit and sent here. Currently, she flew solo, allegedly acting as a test pilot for Adumari export-grade fighters. Her role here was, on the surface at least, to judge which Adumari craft had potential for Imperial service. Phennir knew it was all smoke and mirrors, a sham to disguise the fact that she was here to gather data for experimental combat systems. She was a Sienar corporate spy in all but name.

Phennir was, too, in truth. But he represented a different faction of Sienar's board of directors. Rashon and her ilk believed in a future dominated by hypertech and exotic gimmicks. He didn't. For him, the future of starfighter combat lay in the potential of the mortal pilot. Skill and savvy would win wars, not electronic crutches. The starfighter he'd commissioned from Sienar would that quite ably once it was complete.

Sighing, Rell tried to cut the impending argument short before it could escalate. 'Either way, these two are nothing we can't handle once we get the green-light to intervene. The other wingpair won't add too much, either. We have numbers, firepower, and experience on our side.'

The Eternal Lieutenant. Rell had held his rank for as long as Phennir could remember. The old veteran was a rock-solid combatant and wingman, as well as a capable flight lead. Phennir never did find out why Rell had never been promoted. Either the man was perfectly comfortable in his role or he'd upset someone in Naval Personnel Resources. Either way, Phennir was glad to have Rell on the team. At least with him around, there was someone outside the 181st who could be relied on.

'For now,' Phennir said. 'And the experience part is debatable. We already culled the weak during the war. The Alliance pilots who survived have been fighting for as long as we have, and on vastly inferior logistics.'

'And vastly inferior gear,' Rashon added. 'Look at this. X-wings? Astromechs? It's clear they're desperate. They've done little more than upgrade long-outdated designs. The age of Incom's beloved T-65 series has passed. These are no skies for old fighters, gentlemen.'

'Then how am I still here?' Rell replied.

Shaking his head, Phennir shut off the hololith. 'The same way long-range missiles make laser cannons obsolete? Don't be an idiot, Rashon. These Rebels are not to be underestimated.'

Rashon picked up her helmet and made for the door. 'Worry about yourself, Commander Phennir. _I'm_ not afraid of a few touched-up rustbuckets.'

* * *

On the other side of the continent, the other two members of Red Flight surveyed their own handiwork, watching Khalin AFB burn from a nearby cliff. Blast craters pockmarked the runway, where the ruined hulks of Cartann Blade fighters and Dagger interceptors smoldered. Not a single enemy craft managed to get airborne. Good shooting, Janson thought to himself. Even after years of nothing more than convoy raids and hit-and-runs, he and Four hadn't gotten rusty.

'We just blew up an airfield,' Janson said, stretching out on his X-wing's starboard strike foil. 'That was pretty fuckin' ninja.'

Aron grunted noncommittally, taking a sip from his canteen.

'Something the matter?'

Shrugging, Aron responded, 'Just worried, is all.'

'About what?' Janson asked. 'Not like there's anything on this rock that can touch us.'

'One and Two. The occupation force here in Yedagon isn't much more than a retirement home for old Cartann grunts. Halbegardia's supposed to be where all the best are stationed.'

Ike shrugged. 'Come on, dude. They survived Fresia, they'll live through this. Adumar's just another op, my friend.'

'As far as we know, anyway,' Aron said. 'I don't like this. We've been kept in the dark about almost everything related to the mission, and the support we have comes in the form of an Intel agent on the other side of an e-mail address. What do we do once we get the rebellion ball rolling?'

'Convince the Perator to stand down and declare allegiance to our side?' Janson ventured. 'I mean, I can't speak for you, but I'm sure I've got the looks and personality to, ah, persuade Cartann's beautiful elite.'

'Sure, lover boy,' Aron said. 'Sure. But what's the Alliance doing? Are we here to raise hell and leave? How does the plan change if one of us dies? If one wingpair gets terminated before we manage to reach phase 2 of this show? If the Empire gives us a healthy dose of base delta zero?'

Janson groaned, dropped down, and gave his wingman a light punch in the shoulder. 'We'll cross those bridges if or when we get there, man. No use getting your panties in a twist about them now. Gotta stay focused, gotta stay fly, gotta stay-'

'Space God, I hate that song.'

Janson patted him on the back. 'That's the spirit, brother. Now come on. We need to get the hell out of here before Cartann starts sending search parties.'


	7. Free Ride

6

Free Ride

The Royal Fine Arts Museum of Halbegardia was an old building. Standing tall and proud across from the Parliament Building, the RFAM was one of the few Halbegardian monuments left untouched by the occupation force, saved from bombardment and gunfire by the orders of one of the Cartann field marshals. Though most of the staff and artwork had long since been scattered and hidden, a few remained to tend to its halls and the works that were too large or too fragile to pack away.

Hallways once filled with tourists and priceless masterpieces now sat empty and silent, save for the occasional custodian droid or curator. Hollow frames hung forlornly on the spotless white walls, leaving imagination and the descriptor plaques to fill in the void. Before old age took him, the head curator used to greet the few travelers who still came after the invasion, vividly describing each and every piece that would have occupied the empty plinths and frames with holo-perfect detail. After he died, nobody bothered to return.

In these dreary post-invasion days, Anna found it difficult just to get out of bed. As much as she loved the museum, it hurt to see how lifeless the place had become since Cartann's victory. She had no idea why she bothered unlocking the front doors and keeping the power running every day. Often, entire days passed without a single visitor. Occasionally, a family came in to give their kids a little taste of the pre-war art but these days, most people preferred to drown their sorrows in alcohol or hide them with idle chatter at some other social watering hole. It came as a surprise, then, when a pair of men-off-worlders judging by their speech-showed up at the door and deposited some credcoins in the donation box.

'Looks like a full house tonight,' remarked one, his voice carrying a slight Corellian brogue.

'I can tell Cartann's been good for business,' replied the other, a Coruscanti. 'Do you still have Mitthz'ah'nyom's diptych, _Hand of Thrawn_ _,_ on display?'

Anna raised her eyebrows in surprise. 'O-of course!'

She reached under the front desk and unfolded a map of the museum, pointing out a section in the far end of the building's east wing, labeled 'Modern Xenoculture.'

'So just take the hallway down to your right, then take a left at the very end. It should be through the last door on your right. I'd show you myself, but, uh-'

'Can't leave your post,' the Corscanti concluded. 'It's quite alright, miss. I understand. We're likely to do a bit of wandering along the way anyway. Cheers.'

* * *

'Chiss art, huh?' Garik muttered as they ventured deeper into the building.

'Makes a convenient landmark for this meeting,' Niklas replied. 'Besides, it's one of the artist's last truly great masterpieces. Back before the Yuuzhan Vong War cocked up the galaxy.'

As the two reached their destination, they spotted a janitor wrist-deep in the innards of a cleaning droid.

'Trouble with the cleaning?' Niklas asked, sending the agreed-upon code greeting.

'Yep,' the janitor replied, looking up at them. His facial features and accent all bore the marks of the people born in Kuat's eastern hemisphere. 'And there's a whole lot of filth that needs cleaning up today.'

The janitor jerked his thumb at the door behind him, marked 'Authorized personnel only.' 'You guys mind asking the boys in the back for an arc welder?'

Shrugging, the two pilots stepped past the art piece and into the service corridors, where another guy wearing a staff uniform waited.

'You guys V cell?' Garik asked.

'Yep,' said the janitor, his features obscured by a face mask-likely used to prevent janitors from sneezing, coughing, spitting, or breathing on the artwork. Tall, broad-shouldered, and square-jawed, this speaker was pretty clearly the cell leader. 'I'm Viper. The guy outside was Vagabond. Callsigns only from here on out.'

Niklas and Garik traded a look and shrugged. Academy-issue callsigns would have to do for now.

'Alright,' Garik said. 'I'm Mobius.'

'Phoenix,' Niklas added.

Viper scratched his chin thoughtfully. 'Mobius and Phoenix. Those'll work. Follow me. We've got a ride waiting in the parking lot.'

* * *

The Old Man stopped halfway across King's Bridge, putting down his bag of groceries to catch his breath. Jack had left him some Imperial credits, a shopping list, and instructions for brewing medicine from the stuff he'd taken during the factory break-in. Before Cartann came, the fairground at the western end was a prime spot for families and lovers to amuse themselves. Bright lights, cheery music, hot food, and all sorts of rides and games kept people's spirits high despite the depressing chill of winter. Now it was empty, the vendors gone and the attractions melted down to be used to fuel the Imperial and Cartann war machine.

'They'll need you soon, you know.'

Jumping slightly, the Old Man turned to the source of the noise. It was the little red astromech again.

'Where did you come from?'

'I don't have long,' the droid beeped. 'Cut the chaff and ask me the important stuff.'

'Fine, Red. _Who_ will need me? Jack and his customers?'

'No, you dolt. You said it yourself. A storm is coming. Who do you _think_?'

Sighing, the Old Man slumped against the railing. 'The hell do I have to do with the rebels? I can't even remember my own name, Red. You think I'm going to be any use to them?'

'You'd better be,' the droid said, 'because the galaxy is moving fast and everyone's going to get caught up in it, whether they like it or not. You were a soldier once, Gramps. Are you going to fight like a man or die like a dog?'

'And how the hell do you propose I start, eh? Pick up a gun and storm the nearest Cartann base?'

'You start with the recipe Jack gave you.'

Cursing under his breath, the Old Man picked up the groceries and started walking.

* * *

V cell's third member, Vaquero, was waiting by the team's speeder van, leaning against the back doors and strumming a baliset as the others entered the parking lot. Surprised, Vaquero stowed his instrument and got the vehicle started.

'Pretty good music there,' Garik commented, strapping himself into one of the back seats. 'Musician by trade?'

'Nah,' Vaquero said from the driver's seat. 'Pilot, just like Viper and Vagabond. But I _do_ like music. The upbeat kind, mind you. Life these days is so dreary and sad. I want my strings to carry some passion and fire, you know? Give some people a sense of the good times we used to have.'

Despite themselves, Garik and Niklas smiled.

'Alright,' Niklas said, clearing his throat. 'So, our Intelligence contact said A cell had a mission for us. You know anything about that?'

'Yeah,' Viper replied. 'You've been assigned to our op. We'll be mounting a raid on San Alero AFB with another cell.'

Garik raised an eyebrow. 'And A cell called in a bunch of pilots for this? We're not exactly equipped for an assault.'

'Our job is a starship theft,' Vagabond replied, slotting an energy cell into a blaster carbine. 'Cartann's got a bunch of captured Alliance materiel there. Field Marshal ke Lorrein's apparently big on trophies, so he's been loath to destroy the Alliance gear left over from the invasion. According to friendly recon, there's a bunch of A-31s stashed away in one of the hangars. We get in, steal as many Arrows as we can, and destroy the ones we can't fly home.'

'Sounds like fun,' Gary said, flexing and relaxing the fingers on his cyberarm. 'How are we doing this? Black trenchcoat or pink mohawk?'

'Black trenchcoat,' said Viper, loading his own firearms. 'We don't have the training, ammo, or gear to handle stand-up firefights. Pink mohawk is the other cell's job. They'll handle most of the shooting and exploding while we go in and do our voodoo.'

'Sounds like a plan,' Niklas said. 'What are our rules of engagement?'

Vagabond grinned. 'This is Adumar, my friend. The only rule is to survive.'

* * *

Two comm clicks. That was the signal for the joyride team's arrival. Rashik flicked off the safety on his rifle. Everyone in his cell was already in position. His sniper team was ready on the hilltop a few kilometers to the east. The assault team all lay low alongside him while the heavy support team was just a few meters behind. All of them were Alliance marines, the remnants of the 3rd Reconnaissance Battalion. Everyone else was dead or MIA, lost during the Imperial and Cartann offensive.

Three comm clicks. The pilots were ready. Green light. All of them were waiting for his first shot. He took aim at the nearest guard, slowed his breathing, and squeezed the trigger. As the guard dropped, the firestorm began.

'Team One, on me!' Rashik yelled. 'Team Two, suppressing fire!'

As he advanced, the support team's heavy repeater opened up, the hail of blaster bolts cutting apart a pair of Cartann soldiers and forcing their comrades to go to ground. Now stationary, they made easy pickings for Team Three's snipers. Rashik's team reached the sensor tower, spreading out and laying down another base of fire as Team Two relocated. Meanwhile, he set demo charges on the tower and the base's backup generator. As the only 3rd Recon survivor with extensive demolitions training, his job was to hump all the high-yield explosives. Not that there were many left. His cell didn't have much milspec ordnance left. Finally, he wired the last charge on the backup generator, ducking back into cover and slotting a grenade into his rifle's underslung launcher. Now their job was to be as big, flashy, and unpleasant a distraction as possible for as long as possible. He hoped they had enough ammo.

* * *

Commander Phennir let out an impressed whistle as he took his new TIE for a spin. It had arrived just this morning, fresh from Sienar's R&D department and fully fueled. Sleek, angular, and deceptively simple, the newest prototype TIE out of R&D bore the design influences of the old Interceptor, Hunter, and Eta-2. Its armament was nothing special-quad laser cannons and a pair of general-purpose ordnance tubes capable of loading six torps or eight missiles, along with all the high-end ECM that all modern TIEs boasted. For additional long-range power, the TIE carried a solid slug railgun. It had limited ammunition, sure, but it had far less power drain than a heavy laser cannon and was far easier to jettison in an emergency.

Its construction, meanwhile, was impeccable. No expense was spared on quality or reliability. Every single part, hull plate, and weapon had been designed with standards normally reserved for Imperial Knight equipment. The engines, Sienar's newest twin-ions, gave the new TIE higher acceleration and in-atmo top speed than all of its predecessors. Autothrusters and verniers gave it nearly unmatched maneuverability. And in response to the TIE Predator's horrid frontal viewport visibility, Sienar had narrowed the support frame and reused the old wheel-spoke design of the classic TIE series. In short, it was a damn fine space superiority craft.

'It's one hell of a machine, sir,' said _Invictus_ ' chief engineer on the comm. Back on the ship, he watched Phennir's maneuvers through the Star Destroyer's holocams, taking notes on a datapad.

Phennir's tone was reverent and hushed. 'The TIE/ct Centurion. Looks like Sienar took my advice seriously.'

'You worked on this, sir?'

'For a few years, yes. I was one of the consultants and test pilots for the early models. I've kept Sienar up to speed with updates on battlefield technology since then. This is a prototype for the squad leader variant.'

'It definitely looks expensive enough for the role, sir. How would you tell the difference visually?'

'See the crest running down the middle of the top hatch? Housing for heavy-duty comm and sensor gear.'

'Ah.'

'It's not a perfect counter to the RX-87 series-'

'The what, sir?'

'RX-87. Our placeholder designation for these new X-wings with an added "R" prefix to designate its experimental status. We discovered them after the X-83 entered production and the Incom files we captured on Fresia indicate that the X-85 was a completely different model built for civilians. So it's the RX-87 until we turn up something new.

But our data on these X-wings is incomplete and based largely on observation. We don't know their exact capabilities or limits, but the Centurion here is built to give these upstarts a run for their money.'

At that moment, a distress signal pinged on his sensor board. San Alero AFB, right in the Halbegardian heartland. Phennir commed the ship. 'Phennir to _Invictus_. Requesting permission to respond to distress call?'

Captain Theron answered, 'You're cleared to intervene, Commander. Let's see what your new ride can do.'

* * *

With a creak of tortured metal, Garik's cyberarm tore open the chainlink fence on the base's eastern end. Viper waved the team forward, Vaquero taking point with the team's scattergun. They ran in the shadows, keeping to the back paths of the base as the assault escalated.

'Right here,' Vagabond whispered, consulting his datapad's map.

'Alright,' said Viper, putting his hand on the door handle. 'Stack up.'

He counted down. Three. Two. One. He pulled the door open and Vaquero tossed in a pair of stun grenades. Two loud bangs and some muffled screams of surprise. They moved in, dispatching the few engineers cowering in the hangar. A minute later, the team sent all-clear signals.

'Check the fighters,' Viper ordered, climbing onto one of the A-31s.

The A-31 Arrow interceptor was Incom-made, legendary for its speed and agility, even when compared to the Empire's TIEs. Like the A-wings of old, the Arrow was a small one-man craft fitted with sophisticated jamming systems, high-powered engines, and rapid-fire cannons. It had a frameless bubble canopy, a quad laser array mounted on the underside, two internal missile tubes, and a sleek frame that terminated in a fine point. All of these A-31s bore the livery and colors of the 08th Tactical Starfighter Squadron, the unit to which V cell had originally belonged. Only a handful of these craft survived the initial war with the Empire. These days, all the Alliance had were those horrid CF-9 Crossfires.

'Fuel gauges on two are full,' Niklas reported.

Vagabond said, 'Five are partially fueled. Looks like there's enough total to top off two.'

'Roger that,' Viper said. 'Mine's full. Get that fuel siphoned off fast. Mobius, set explosives on the empty ones. Vaquero, get these hangar doors open.'

Unlocking his Arrow's canopy, Viper donned the helmet and flak jacket left on the seat and strapped himself in. The instrument panel and control systems still looked and felt comfortably familiar after all these years.

'It's good to be back, old girl,' he whispered, clipping on his flight helmet's breath mask.

* * *

As the hangar doors opened, Rashik saw one of the Arrows annnihilate a quartet of Cartann troopers with a shot from its cannons. Five starfighters, steel-gray with dark blue racing stripes, taxied out onto the runway on repulsorlifts, engines screaming, the space behind them distorted by heat haze. As they lifted off, Rashik gave the order to retreat.

'Alright, people, we leapfrog back. Support team, fall back! Assault team, shift your base of fire right! Put some fire on the control tower! Team Three, keep up the fire!'

Taking aim, Rashik planted a pair of shots into a sniper on the control tower balcony.

'Team Two, in position!' yelled his support element's leader. A split second later, the heavy repeater opened up again, scything through the control tower's windows. Rashik's team fell back one by one, with him breaking cover last. As he dropped back into cover by the support team, he detonated the demo charges. A few seconds later, an explosion rocked one of the hangars at the far end of the base as well.

'Cease fire,' Rashik ordered. 'Gentlemen, we just raided an airfield.'

'Well, that was pretty fuckin' ninja,' quipped the unit's support gunner.

'Scatter and regroup at Rendezvous Alpha,' Rashik said, reloading his blaster rifle. 'Let's get the hell out of here.'

* * *

Vaquero whooped on the comm, echoing the elation all five of them felt at taking to the skies after a mission well done. They flew low to avoid tipping off the Cartann sensor net, cresting treetops and rupturing the eardrums of anyone weird and unfortunate enough to be out and about in the cold.

'Everyone still alive?' Viper asked.

Garik thumbed his comm. 'Yub yub, Commander.'

'Good. Scatter and set down at your assigned locations. Our rides will get picked up and relocated someplace secure when we touch down.'

As V cell broke off to follow their own flight plans, the two Red Flight pilots formed up. They didn't need to split up for a while yet. Down below, the snow-covered fields of Halbegardia rolled by, criss-crossed by highways and hedgerows. For a few minutes, all seemed calm. Until Garik's sensor picked up something coming in at high speed.

'Unknown signature approaching,' Garik said, 'twelve o'clock high.'

'Roger that,' Niklas said. 'Guns are hot. Let's do this.'

As one, the pair climbed to meet this new enemy.

* * *

Phennir maxed out the throttle on his fighter as he approached the two A-31s, switching to the railgun and yawing to port to target one of the Arrows. As he took aim, a flash of recognition crossed his mind. One of these was the X-wing pilot he'd dueled that fateful day.

'I've been waiting for this,' Phennir said.

He pulled the trigger, sending a hypervelocity slug downrange. He was pleased to see it clip one of the cooling fins mounted above the Arrow's starboard engine, throwing off the pilot's maneuvering. As he turned to pursue, the Alliance pilot's wingman maneuvered to attack. Breaking off his turn, Phennir climbed and looped hard as he heard the warning tone, dropping decoy pods as he dodged. He followed up with a Segnor loop, goosing the vernier thrusters to boost to starboard before firing his lasers.

The blast creased the second Arrow's shields. Not enough to drain them completely, but the fragile interceptor would probably be vulnerable to a follow-up shot. Before he could fire, however, the first Arrow locked on and loosed one of his own missiles. Rolling hard and activating his autothrusters, Phennir dodged the missile, slipping outside its proximity fuse's range by a hairsbreadth, then K-turned hard, getting on the tail of the first Arrow again. As the missile came around for another pass, Phennir blasted it out of the sky with a burst of laser fire before pushing his starfighter's maneuvering gear to the limit. He fired, tagging the A-31 with a direct hit and popping its shields. One more blast and-

An explosion shook his craft. Checking his rear camera, he saw the wingman on his tail. No lock tone. He must have dumbfired the missile and manually detonated it. Though distant, the explosion still managed to rattle his craft. Phennir cursed as he saw the single entry on the damage report: 'Inertial compensator disabled.'

Breaking off his pursuit, he fired his maneuvering thrusters again, rotating clockwise about his starfighter's horizontal axis, the g-forces wrenching him to the side. Switching back to the railgun, he fired again, heavily damaging the wingman on his pass, then switching to lasers as he scissored into the lead pilot's flight path, firing again and turning back for another pass. His vision grayed out as he did so, the g-forces putting immense strain on his body even with the protective flight suit on. That brief moment of disorientation nearly proved to be his undoing, his port side taking hits from the wingman's guns. Coughing, Phennir pulled back on the stick and climbed, maxing out the throttle as he climbed back to space.

* * *

Garik straightened out his fighter as the TIE pulled away from the furball. It only lasted a few seconds, but those few seconds had pushed his skills to the limit. Calming his breathing, he diverted weapon power to shield recharge and took a look at the damage on Niklas' Arrow. Heavy, but not enough to force an eject. He keyed the comm.

'Yo, buddy,' he said. 'You still alive?'


	8. Rebel Dawn

7

Rebel Dawn

Halbegardia's capital was quiet today. As the Old Man made his way to one of Jack's suppliers, the only noise he heard was his own boots crunching on the salt chunks scattered up and down the sidewalk. The people were anxious. They'd seen the X-wings. They'd seen the Cartann propaganda dismissing the pilots as terrorists. Today, the glorious Cartann protectors had seen the vile rebel Starfighters off with minimal casualties! And yesterday, the Cartann security forces had stamped out another vile dissident cell! The weekly chocolate ration had increased to 0.2 colmeks (conveniently forgetting that last week's ration had been 0.3)! Our father, the almighty Perator, had the situation under control!

And all the while, the people spoke in hushed whispers. There was fear, of course. War was on the horizon and they all knew it. But there was also hope. People were out there fighting for _them_. The Alliance _still_ had some fire left in it. Trivia and celebrity bullshit had given way to talk of liberation. Some fantasized wildly about a full Alliance fleet and the rebirth of the New Jedi Order. Speculation on the X-wing pilots' identities was one of the hottest topics discussed outside Cartann earshot. Surely, it couldn't be another Antilles, right? Another Red Flight to lead a united Adumar against Cartann like the old days? Or perhaps Skywalker himself had survived to fight back against the Empire and its puppet. Regardless, what mattered was that Halbegardia was no longer asleep. The people looked to the skies with bright eyes. Salvation had come from on high.

Rebellion was in the air but, unfortunately, it hadn't made the weather any less miserable. Snow, snow, and more snow. The Old Man checked the address Jack had scribbled on the instruction sheet and knocked on the door of a run-down old house in Morood-on-Wycke, one of the city's slum districts.

'Yeah?' grumbled a voice behind the door.

'Whiskey Jack told me to come here. Said you had some stuff on this list.'

There was a pause. Bewildered, the man on the other side asked, 'Jack, you said?'

'Yeah,' the Old Man replied. 'There a problem or something?'

A pause.

'Alright, slide the paper under the door.'

The Old Man did. Muttering curses about the cold, he slapped himself awake and rubbed his hands together, blowing on them for warmth. After what seemed like an eternity, the door opened slightly and a gloved hand held out a plastic bag. The Old Man checked its contents and, satisfied, gave the hand the promised payment in gold perats.

'Don't know if anyone else has told you this, chummer,' said the doorman, 'but you're crazy, y'know.'

'Oh?'

'Don't know why you're still brewing for the fucker. Whiskey Jack's been dead for a week.'

'Hold up. What? I just saw him this morning.'

'You're seeing things, Gramps. Motherfucker blew a thousand perats on hookers and blow, went out like a king.'

And with that, the door shut. Stunned, the Old Man started the long return trip to Jack's brewpub. He saw the little astromech again and shooed it away. Undeterred, the droid followed him all the way to Jack's place. The silence was sepulchral.

* * *

Monarch gave Phennir the most sarcastic slow clap in the galaxy as he pulled his damaged fighter in for a landing.

'Bra-fucking-vo, "Ace of Aces,"' she called out. 'Nearly vaped by two no-name pilots in Arrows. What an amazing example you are for us plebs.'

As Phennir climbed out of his TIE, he deliberately ignored Rachon, first handing a datastick containing his gun-cam footage to the squad's lead engineer. Then he took off his helmet, smoothed his hair, and handed off his life support harness to another waiting technician before facing her with a false smile.

'Inertial compensator problems,' he said. 'Things will go wrong when flying a prototype in a live-fire situation. Only someone who spent all their time at Sienar's safe and cozy proving grounds wouldn't know that. And how was your day today, Rachon? Still queen of the simulator pods?'

Phennir didn't give her the chance to answer, leaving the hangar to clean up and hit the ship's gym for some high-G training. Clenching her fist, Monarch bit back a retort that would probably have gotten her court-martialed.

'He's got a point,' Lieutenant Rell remarked. 'Aside from the risk of being turned into jelly on the turns, it's a damn fine craft.'

'It's a _grunt_ fighter,' Rachon sniped. 'Nothing more than a dressed-up line unit.'

Shrugging, Rell left for his launch bay. Damn kids these days and their starship dick-measuring.

* * *

Over the course of the next week, rebel cells in both Halbegardia and Yedagon embarked on a series of daring raids, emboldened by the victories of the mysterious pilots. Supply depots were raided and ransacked, their foodstuffs and munitions used to fuel the growing rebel war effort. Cartann motor pools, overstocked and undermanned, became prime targets for former tank crews and speeder jocks. The Adumari rebels' few pre-war vehicles and starfighters, mothballed and hidden long ago, were finally broken out of storage. Their owners, survivors of the Halbegardian Army and Alliance garrison, were chomping at the bit, eager to exact revenge on Cartann and the Empire.

Argama AFB was the largest target Halbegardia's Red Team had encountered yet. The headquarters of the Halbegardian capital region's operations, Argama was heavily defended by SAMs, laser AAA, and a wide variety of infantry and armor. It was less an air force base and more a miniature city, its hangars and tents taking up nearly as much real-estate as the nearby port city from which it derived its name. This was the conduit used to funnel supplies and troops into the land surrounding the capital and its neighboring towns and cities.

Supporting Red Team were Viper's team, callsign "Halo Squadron;" a Halbegardian Dagger-9 flightknife, "Kingmaker;" elements of the 3rd Alliance Marine Recon Battalion, designated "Blackjack;" and a tank company from Halbegardia's own 7th Armored Division, designated "Challenger." The task was straightforward enough. Red Team was responsible for close-air support and taking on any enemy attackers or strike fighters while Halo and Kingmaker ran top cover. The tanks, a number of pre-war Blastpike MBTs, formed the spearhead of the ground assault while the Marines moved in support. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and fighting against a fortified enemy with mostly post-war tech. And with a force this large, there was no way Cartann didn't know they were coming. The only advantages the rebel forces had were experience—Cartann veterans looked down on Argama as a 'hotel' posting—and tenacity. In short, it was just another day at the office.

* * *

'Right on schedule,' Sergeant Bannon muttered.

Rashik heard the noise of fighter engines on the horizon a split second after Bannon spoke. Mentally, he counted down. Three. Two. One.

As if on cue, a pair of proton torpedoes vaporized the hastily-built bunkers that guarded Argama AFB's front gate. The first Cartann starfighters had only just begun to climb away from the airfield when Red Team made their first pass. Impressive—even with foreknowledge of the attack, Cartann's fighters and AA defenses were nowhere near fast enough to react to the X-wings. No doubt, Red Team's fighters had plenty of sophisticated ECM tech installed to help things along, too.

'This is Challenger,' announced the tank company's leader, 'engines are hot and we're rolling now. May the Golden King smile upon us.'

Kicking their repulsorlifts into high gear, the Blastpike MBTs of the 7th Armored charged forth in a wedge formation, kicking up dust in their wake. Rashik's men followed, careful to stay behind the tanks as Argama AFB's defenses finally woke up. Far behind the front, his mortar teams shelling the outer defenses.

Cartann armor began shoring up the base's defenses. Perator MBTs, hull down and concealed, slagged the Halbegardian tank _Lucky Bastard_ as it tried to drive past the main gate. The marines behind the tank were knocked flat by the explosion. One of the Perators got cocky, breaking cover to gun down the retreating infantry. Challenger Company's lead vehicle, _Blue Moon_ , avenged its dead comrade, planting a shot into the Perator's side and rupturing its power plant. Still, there were far too many Cartann vehicles to have any hope of beating them in a conventional fight.

 _Blue Moon_ 's commander hailed Rashik on comms. 'Blackjack, we're going to be in tight quarters from here on in. Requesting you scout ahead and mark targets, over.'

'Roger that,' Rashik replied. Waving Sergeant Bannon's team forward, the Marine captain led the way into Argama AFB.

* * *

 _Blue Moon_ pulled to a halt beside a barracks building as its driver picked up an enemy IFF tag on his display, marked by one of the Marine fire teams.

'Traverse turret, forty-five degrees clockwise,' said Challenger Leader.

'Traversed!' the gunner yelled. 'Up!'

The gun was charged. 'Fire!' the tank commander yelled.

 _Blue Moon_ shook slightly as her main gun planted a high-focus laser bolt through the barracks.

'Up!' the gunner yelled a few seconds later.

'Fire!'

Another shot went through the barracks. This second shot was met with an explosion. If that Cartann tank hadn't died to the first shot, it certainly was dead now. They pushed forward, scanning carefully for targets. A few meters above, an Alliance probe droid hovered across the base, marking vehicles and infantry with sensor pulses. However, while helpful, probe droids were no substitute for the good old Mark I Eyeball. _Blue Moon_ moved towards the airfield, backed up by _Defying Gravitas_. All was quiet for the first few meters, most of the marked targets too distant for _Moon_ to attack. As they rounded the airfield control tower, however—

'Get clear! Get clear!'

At that moment, charges set inside the tower detonated. Snapped in half, the top section of the tower lurched and fell. _Moon_ 's driver gunned it forward, getting out of the way just in the nick of time. _Gravitas_ , however was not so lucky. It failed to accelerate quickly enough, its engine poorly maintained due to a lack of spare parts over the years. It and the Marine fire team behind it were crushed by the falling rubble.

'We've got incoming!' the driver yelled. 'Other side of the airfield!'

'Tank destroyer, two o'clock!' the commander barked.

The gunner traversed the turret again, taking aim. 'Up!'

'Fire!'

The shot took the enemy speeder's turret off but failed to kill. Reversing hard into cover, the tank destroyer swapped places with an IFV.

'ATGM!'

 _Moon_ 's crew braced for impact, their vehicle too slow to dodge guided ordnance at such close range. The tank shuddered as the missile detonated. Luckily, the old explosive reactive armor plating on _Moon_ 's turret still worked after all these years, rendering the guided missile ineffective. The Halbegardian tank's return shot punched right through the IFV's flank, smearing the crew across the tarmac behind it. A pair of Perators rolled in after, nudging aside the IFV wreck. Challenger Leader cursed. Those Cartann tanks _would_ penetrate his vehicle's armor with ease.

'Popping smoke!' he called out, firing the grenade launchers mounted on the tank's exterior. 'Strafe hard right!'

The driver goosed the tank's repulsors and verniers, jerking the vehicle sideways as a pair of high-focus laser bolts glassed the space _Blue Moon_ once occupied.

'Left Perator, high-focus! Fire!'

 _Blue Moon_ shook.

'Shot bounced!'

Just then, a pair of rockets lanced out from one of the nearby storage buildings. One explode harmlessly on the heavily armored turret of the left tank while the other destroyed the right-hand vehicle's targeting scopes. The Perators momentarily distracted, _Moon_ 's crew took that time to more carefully aim their next shot.

'Up!'

'Shot!' the gunner yelled, sending a laser bolt right into the left vehicle's turret ring and destroying it. 'Kill confirmed!'

Seeing that it was outgunned, the surviving Perator reversed hard, sending a parting high-spread laser blast into the warehouse as it retreated, using its dead comrades' wrecks as cover.

'Blackjack Lead, this is Challenger Lead! You still with us?'

'Affirmative,' Rashik said, 'but we've taken a beating. I get the feeling they'll be back.'

'Roger that, Blackjack. Can you still spot targets for airstrikes?'

'We can but it'll be danger close, Challenger.'

'Do it.'

* * *

At the sound of a SAM lock warning, Garik pulled hard on the stick, taking his X-wing into a hard turn and deploying countermeasure pods. Behind him, the missile swerved hard to starboard and detonated. Breathing a sigh of relief, turned back towards the Cartann base as the ground forces designated targets. As he neared the base, he planted an HLC shot into the SAM that had fired at him then yawed to starboard, taking aim at a line of Cartann armor attempting to counter the incoming Halbegardian armor. As he reached laser lock distance, he opened up on the vehicles, blowing them apart with the HLC before climbing back up. More Challenger units moved in, knocking the wreckage aside to assault the airfield.

'Blackjack, Red One. Gun run successful. Four targets vaped, coming around for another pass.'

K-turning hard, Garik lined up another vehicle platoon, torping the lead tank and gunning down the speeders trapped behind its wreck.

'Blackjack, Blackjack, this is Red One. Four more vehicles wrecked. I'm seeing zero new ground targets on my end.'

'Red One, Blackjack. Acknowledged. Good shooting.'

As he positioned his fighter for a run on the last SAMs, Vera pinged him on comms.

'One here. Send it, Red Eye.'

'New intel,' Vera said. 'Enemy comm intercepts indicate that airborne reinforcements are en route, ETA two minutes. Two Blades escorting a flight of enemy strike fighters.'

'Roger that, Eye,' Garik replied. Checking his sensor board, he saw that Halo and Kingmaker teams were still busy with their furball. That meant he and Two were the only ones capable of making the intercept.

'All units, this is Red One. We've got new enemy fighters incoming. Looks like they're aiming to hit Blackjack and Challenger. Two and I are breaking off to intercept.'

Climbing hard, the two X-wings formed up to meet the newcomers. Moments later, the lead craft of the Cartann formation appeared on sensors. And as luck would have it, the two Blades bore the markings and IFF signals of pilots in Vera's little hit-list.

'Looks like we've got Cartann's attention now,' Niklas remarked. 'They're finally sending their aces after us.'

As they approached, the Blades hailed Red Team on comms. 'This is Captain Renno ke Serac of Pewter Serpent Flightknife. In the name of the Perator, this airspace is ours to rule. What mongrels seek to challenge our supremacy?'

It was the proper introduction to an air challenge.

'Accept the call,' Vera said. 'If we're going to inspire Adumar, we might as well show that we can beat Cartann at its own game.'

'Two X-wings of the Galactic Federation of Free Alliances,' Garik replied. 'What starfighters seek to defend this airspace?'

'Two Blade-60s and four Aegis-12s of Cartann,' Serac declared. 'We challenge you, Alliance dogs! In the Perator's name, you shall sully our great world no longer! Our two Blades against your X-wings!'

'We accept,' Garik said. 'But we'll take you _all_ on.'

Serac paused. 'Two against six? There is no honor in fighting an outnumbered foe!'

Settling into his seat, Garik activated his targeting scope. 'Trust me, Captain. You'll need more than that to beat us.'

Serac laughed. 'I like your spirit. Very well, then, Alliance pilot! Have at you!'

'Right.' Garik grinned. 'Here we go.'


	9. War Boys

8

War Boys

' _Boxer, Boxer_ , say again, you're breaking up.'

' _Gallant_ , we-' Static.

 _Gallant's_ comms officer shook his head, fiddling futilely with his instrument panel. 'It's no good, Captain,' he said.

'Sir,' the sensor officer added, 'I'm detecting fires and hull breaches breaking out across _Boxer's_ hull. We'll lose them unless we do something soon.'

Grimacing, the heavy cruiser's captain weighed his options. The unspoken rule of the void was to rescue the crews of doomed ships, or at least provide damage control assistance. However, with news of Alliance starships operating on Adumar, he knew that other Alliance fleet assets would not be too far away. This could easily be a trap. He and his crew had all run the sims of 'damaged' ships breaking apart to reveal hidden starfighter squadrons.

'Dammit,' he muttered. 'Prep away teams. Engineers and marines. Helm, set a course to dock with _Boxer_.'

* * *

 _Boxer_ was a _Mosel_ -class freighter, one of the Imperial Naval Supply Corps' workhorses until recently. Twelve hours ago, it had embarked from the great shipyards of Bastion, laden with starfighter munitions, replacement parts, and stealth plating for the Adumari garrison. It was set to rendezvous with another supply convoy in the Gajah Tun System. It never arrived.

Deep within its ruined holds, the warriors of Clans Ordo, Wren, and Fett lay in wait, weapons at the ready as _Gallant_ approached for boarding. They had forsaken blasters, favoring armor-piercing kinetics and other exotic weapons that could crack the armor of today's infantry without fail. Materials science had advanced in leaps and bounds since the First Battle of Yavin. Laminate-C, Mandalorian steel, and a whole host of other alloys and compounds had entered the market in the past few decades, leading to widespread proliferation of blaster-resistant body armor. They needed something with a little more punch than the common E-35.

The first of _Gallant_ 's boarding detail entered the freighter, a stormtrooper fireteam clad in the latest armor variant to roll off the Empire's production lines. Mark XII armor was a notable aesthetic departure from the iconic Rebellion and post-Rebellion designs. Though still quite visibly 'stormtrooper,' it also drew upon antiquity, resembling a mix of ancient _lorica segmentata_ and Old Jedi Order _yoroi_. The helmet had returned to the facial layout of phase 2 clone armor, though its overall shape more closely resembled a combination of an Old Republic _galea_ helmet and Darth Vader's _kabuto_. These particular stormtroopers bore the markings and colors of _Legio IV Ferrata_ , the Ironclad, famed for their role in the Kerassarian Genocide.

They were the first to die.

* * *

'We've lost contact with Two-One Alpha,' Corporal Jarek reported. The adjutant knelt by a heavy-duty comm backpack, fiddling with the dials to no effect. 'Trying to boost the gain but I'm getting nothing but static. Two-Three Beta reported a radiation leak in the engine bay which they claim may be the source of the interference.'

For the first time since his legion's assignment to this uneventful backwater system, Centurion Kaltas felt unease. His gut told him something was amiss, and it wasn't the rations this time.

'No, Corporal,' Kaltas said, 'I get the feeling this is something else.'

'Sir?'

'Humor me, Jarek,' the Centurion grunted, deactivating the safety on his blaster carbine.

* * *

There hadn't been time to hide the bodies. The moment Eirik Ordo's kill-team slaughtered the stormtroopers of Two-One Alpha, the sensing devices they'd planted in the cargo bay detected movement. When the Imperial officer discovered the corpses of his vanguard party, the Mandalorians struck. First blood went to Haru Fett.

Crouched behind a crate of stealth fighter parts, Fett remained invisible to the stormtroopers' proximity and thermal sensors as he moved in for the kill. He drew his spear, fashioned after the ceremonial taiaha wielded by Concord Dawn's old tribes and sheathed in a disruptive energy field. As the officer knelt to inspect the bodies, Fett impaled his adjustant, eliciting a strangled scream and a spray of blood. Eirik killed the centurion a few seconds later, ramming a powered crushgaunt into Kaltas' chest and crushing his heart.

'They'll know we're here,' Fett said, ripping his spear free of the stormtrooper's carcass. He gestured at Kaltas' helmet, adorned with inlaid bronze laurels and a gosk-hair crest. His breastplate, now ruined by Eirik's handiwork, had once resembled an idealized human torso, muscular and toned, unlike the unadorned banded _lorica_ of his subordinates. 'Their officer's dead. They'll want to hear from him.'

'And now comes the fun part, _Vod_ ,' Eirik replied. 'All teams, go loud. Kill every single one of these shit- _atins_ in the name of Mandalore.'

* * *

In starship interiors and other close quarters, violence of action was often the deciding factor in victory. Mandalorians excelled at violence. War was the heart and soul of their culture, and when the Mandalorian boarders broke stealth, they did so swiftly and mercilessly. False wall panels collapsed and jury-rigged smuggling compartments burst open, the warriors concealed within opening fire with magnetic rifles, flamethrowers, and flechette cannons. Plasma charges detonated, incinerating squads of stormtroopers and engineers as they tried to fall back to more defensible positions. And when the Imperials lived long enough to take cover and return fire, the Mandalorians responded with radiation and chemical bombs. Those unlucky enough to have their armor breached by errant gunfire died screaming as their bodies broke down at the molecular level. Then the Mandalorians waded in, close combat weapons bared. Eirik saw a man go down with a trench spike in his skull. Another stormtrooper dropped, head crushed by a pneumatic mace. Their weapons were designed to pierce the warplate of Mandalorian elites, not standard infantry armor. This was not war. It was overkill. It was slaughter.

Eirik laughed as he and his team overran a heavy repeater nest. His voice was a mechanical rumble, emitted through the vox-grille of his snarling helmet, forged in the likeness of a predator from Mandalore's arctic reaches. For years, the Alliance and Shattered Clans had fought a shadow war on the fringes of the galaxy. A hit-and-run here, some assassinations there. Nothing even remotely like the kind of warfare he and his kind were meant for. But now, the Alliance had taken its first step to open war and the Shattered Clans were all too happy to join in. They needed this. _He_ needed this. Blood fizzled and evaporated on his crushgaunt's power field and his mag-pistol thundered as his battle-brothers chanted hymns of war.

It felt good to be back.

* * *

By the time _Gallant's_ bridge crew had cleared up the signal interference originating from _Boxer_ it was already too late. The net was a mess of panicked screams, desperate orders, and gunfire. The captain cursed his folly, running through the datafeed on the ship's CIC, sending rapid-fire messages to his ship's myriad stations as his vessel's emergency klaxons blared.

'Gunnery, fire on that damned freighter now! Full broadside!'

'Sir, the damage from that range-'

'It'll be far less than the damage we'll sustain fighting a boarding party,' the captain roared, slamming a fist on the hololith table. 'Now get those guns firing or I'll find someone who will!'

'Aye, sir,' the gunnery officer muttered.

'Centurion Fodrek, what's the status on our remaining marines?'

A hiss of static, then the centurion's voice, a machine-rasp courtesy of his augmetic voice box. He had suffered a grievous throat injury during the purging of Sorenga IX. 'We stand ready to repel boarders, Captain. Nearly a full century, plus the majority of our heavy weapons and a quaternion of Phase V Dark Troopers.'

'Give them hell, Centurion. And will someone shut off that fucking alarm?' the captain yelled.

* * *

By the time _Gallant_ had blasted _Boxer_ free from its docking clamp, the majority of the Mandalorian warriors had already made it aboard the heavy cruiser. Gutted and burning, the freighter broke apart under point-blank turbolaser bombardment. The unfortunate few who were too slow to escape the ship in time would be mourned in time, along with all the other lost souls left on Botajef and countless other battlefields. They were awaited in the _Manda._ They would ride eternal, shiny, and _beskar_.

This time, they did not face an unprepared, disorganized foe. Centurion Fodrek's remaining marines had set up defensive positions and readied themselves for the coming horde. Unfortunately for them, this resistance only escalated the Mandalorians' bloodlust. They did so love a good scrap. Their taunts and jeers, incredibly offensive when translated into Galactic Basic, made it abundantly clear that they were having the time of their lives.

'C'mere, _atin_! I'll fuckin' glass yer _shabla_ planet, I swear on me mum!'

'Fuck off, pig-fucking Imperial _hut'uun_!'

And these were some of the more polite lines. Every single one seemed to have something creative to say about the Imperials' spouses and female relatives, as well as an encyclopedic knowledge of profanity. And their fighting was every bit as brutal and savage as their banter. One stormtrooper suffered a point-blank headshot from a flechette gun, his skull little more than a bloody ring of laminate. Another fell, chest split open by by an energized vibroblade. Smoke wafted from the wound, the air filling with the stench of cooked meat as his killer spread-eagled him. They ripped and tore, ripped and tore their way through the ship's guts.

Then the Dark Troopers arrived. Their armor, gilt-trimmed and black, was a scaled-up copy of stormtrooper Mk XII _yoroi_ _._ Engraved onto their armor were the names of the worlds on which they had campaigned, starting at the gorget and snaking down the cuirass. These machines bore the names of dozens of planets, seeing action at the front lines of the Sith-Imperial war's opening campaigns. Tall, bulky, and solid, the Dark Troopers weathered the storm of gunfire, tower shields raised as they advanced. Integrated weapon systems blazed away. Gravity cannons and meson beams turned the fearsome Mandalorians into piles of pulverized meat and metal. The lead Dark Trooper spotted another fireteam, spooling up its rotary autolaser and cutting them down as they tried breaking cover. Blaster- _resistant_ armor, not blaster- _proof_.

Without anti-tank weapons, the Mandalorians were forced to fall back, the bulk of their heavy equipment still in transit with the main Alliance fleet. Slowly but surely, the Dark Troopers pushed the main force towards the hangar bays, cutting off the kill-teams that had been sent to the engineering decks and communications systems. Desperate and out of options, Battlemaster Kheran Ordo led the counter-charge.

'To me!' he roared, calling his loyal huscarls to his side. They were the old guard, veterans of dozens of campaigns, their armor and oblong boarding shields festooned with trophies and battle-scars. Battlemaster Ordo was resplendent in his armor-scaled cloak and burnished plate, helm forged as a howling burial mask. He raised a falx encrusted with old Mandalorian runes, one of the few relics salvaged from the sacking of Clan Ordo's fortress on the homeworld, rallying his forces as he split the lead Dark Trooper's shield, slagging the war-droid with a blast from his fusion pistol. Their shield wall broken, the Dark Troopers became easy prey, overwhelmed as Clan Ordo's huscarls and shock troopers pushed through the gap and destroyed them. With their trump card lost, the rest of the Imperials became easy prey. Centurion Fodrek was the last combatant to fall, killing two of the Battlemaster's bodyguard before falling to Ordo himself in single combat. He had fought valiantly. He would be commended to the _Manda._ The bridge crew surrendered soon after, leaving the ship in Mandalorian hands.

'Arteo, Eirik, report,' the Battlemaster ordered.

'Engineering is under our control,' Gann replied, his voice tinged with static. Reactor radiation, probably.

'Comm array disabled,' Eirik said shortly after. 'No outbound messages detected either.'

'Good. Very good, _vod_ _e_. That gives us room to improvise. All units, reconvene at the hangar deck for the next phase of the operation. I'll brief you all there.'


	10. Steel Rain

9

Steel Rain

The first sign of trouble for Imperial and Cartann authorities was _Gallant_ 's lack of communications. Scans showed that her comm arrays had been rendered nonfunctional, destroyed by some unknown weapon. Patrolling on the edge of Adumar's solar system, _Invictus_ was too far out of range to link up with the heavy cruiser and offer aid. Still, it was apparent that her crew, engines, and navigation systems had survived whatever had destroyed her comm blister. The workers at the Gotha Prime superorbital plate prepped the docking facilities, ready to provide repairs, medical aid, and resupply to their Imperial allies. Dockyard authorities exloaded data bursts with instructions for landing and directions to the appropriate berth, as well as activating landing the docks' landing lights and nearby guide buoys.

The second sign of trouble was _Gallant_ 's refusal or inability to decelerate or deactivate shields. Indeed, against all logic, Gotha Prime sensors indicated that the heavy cruiser was _accelerating_ , shields set to double front as she rocketed towards the edge of the superorbital plate. By the time the dockyard issued the evacuation order, it was already too late.

When _Gallant_ hit Adumar's dockyards, it did so with tremendous force, slamming into precisely arrayed rows of cruisers, destroyers, and freighters all set up for refit, refuel, and repair. It was like mag-dumping a blaster rifle into a crowded stadium. Smaller craft simply disintegrated. Fighters and shuttles were little more than brief fizzles against _Gallant's_ shields. Their deaths were quick. Others would not receive the same mercy.

The destroyer _Red Wind_ split in two. Hundreds of dock and ship crew died in an instant, spilled out into the void like the guts of a disemboweled animal. Knocked from the dock mooring, _Red Wind_ 's halves tumbled away in the void, its last surviving inhabitants consigned to a slower, more tortuous death in the airless, shieldless hulks. As _Gallant_ hurtled past, she scalped another destroyer, _Calm Wind_ , vaporizing its sensor masts and crushing its citadel tower, then clipped the tail of the light cruiser _Rancor._ Panicked, _Rancor's_ commanding officer ordered the activation of its maneuvering thrusters, desperately hoping to right the ship before it crashed into the dock. The menial laborers and engineers working on said thrusters were incinerated, as were the dock personnel and repair craft caught out in the void. It wasn't enough. _Rancor_ collided with the fuel lines arrayed along its mooring. The resulting explosion killed three thousand more Adumari workers, crumpled _Rancor_ like an aluminum can, and set off a chain reaction across the orbital plate as other fuel lines, haphazardly scattered, were caught in subsequent blasts.

 _Gallant_ thundered on, punching through Gotha Prime's habitation modules, consigning ten thousand sleeping workers to their doom. Ahead, the battleships _Kurita_ , _Draconis_ , and _Daimyo_ sat idle, recharging from reactor platform A-209, a power plant the size of a Star Destroyer. A-209 was based on an old design, cheap to build but utterly devoid of adequate safety measures and structural integrity. It had spent the past few weeks running hot around the clock, overtaxed by the difficulty of servicing the Empire's Wild Space fleets. All it took was the slightest collision. With a minuscule course correction, _Gallant_ crashed into the super-reactor, severing coolant lines and piercing its protective casing. As _Gallant_ pulled away, the reactor detonated, its stored hypermatter reserves reacting with realspace and obliterating _Kurita_ and _Draconis_. _Daimyo_ , partly shielded from the blast by its fellows' hulls, ripped free from its tether. Thrusters dead, the ruined battleship fell into Adumar's gravitational pull. It would land in one of the planet's great oceans soon after, creating a tsunami that would drown Cartann's coastal cities, offshore fuel platforms, and island colonies, and pollute hundreds of square kilometers of ocean and coastline with chemicals and radioactive material.

Then _Gallant_ began her final approach. She gunned straight for Cartann's heart.

* * *

At twenty thousand meters, Cartann's air defenses finally awoke. Hung over and low on sleep, it took ten agonizingly long minutes for the nation's undisciplined defenders to ready their weapons and scramble aircraft and all the while, comms were a mess of confused yelling and groggy, half-drunk slurs. _Gallant_ ignored the opening volleys easily enough, energy and kinetic impacts glittering off her frontal shields like C-beams near Tannhauser Gate. As the cruiser neared the point of no return, landing craft, drop pods, and escape pods scattered from the falling ship like insects from a hive, all aimed _away_ from the capital city.

'Raise hell, my brothers,' said Kheran Ordo. 'May we meet again for the next phase of the operation. And if we do not, I shall see you at the gates of the Manda. Ride eternal, shiny, and beskar. Ordo out.'

Eirik's kill-team remained safe in their drop pods, chaff and in-built ECM pods rendering them nearly undetectable to Cartann's primitive ground sensors. From his viewport, Eirik saw a mess of meson beams, flak bursts, plasma bolts, and SAM contrails. Something exploded twenty meters to starboard, the shockwave nearly knocking his pod into a passing shuttle. At fifteen thousand meters, Eirik saw one of the escape pods take a plasma hit, catching fire as it fell. The men inside were still screaming when he shut off his commlink. At seven thousand, one of his kill-team's drop pods exploded, taken out by a SAM. He heard Beren Wren's flatline signal a split second later. At one thousand, a glancing shot from a laser defense battery took out his pod's propulsion systems, leaving it without retrothrusters to slow its descent. Eirik reached up and yanked the emergency release handle, explosive bolts blowing the front panel away. Then the noise hit him.

Even through his armor's autosenses, every explosion felt like a hammer-blow, shaking him to his core. With a grunt of effort, Eirik leaped from the pod, free-falling towards Cartann. If only we'd brought our war droids, he thought. To rain down upon a world like his ancestors would have been a glorious thing indeed, far more dignified than this.

Five hundred meters.

He reversed his orientation, falling feet-first and activating his jetpack's thrusters with a mental impulse. Power surged through his crushgaunt, arcs of lightning darting impatiently across his knuckles. With a grin, he braced for impact, watching the altimeter tick down.

* * *

Colonel Ormus ke Toure had always imagined a death in glorious battle. Perhaps it would come in the conquered territories, killed in honorable combat against the inferior insects of Halbegardia and Yedagon. Perhaps it would be in a duel against Leffar ke Rezzi, his old rival. Certainly, that was the image he had tried to cultivate in all his years in the glorious armies of Cartann. He was born on the battlefield and he would die on the battlefield. This posting to the peaceful Gotha Air Force Base was merely a temporary thing, he'd said, a brief break from the fighting in the territories and most certainly not a reassignment brought about by ke Rezzi's connections.

Nobody expected him to die crushed by a falling Mandalorian while nursing the mother of all hangover headaches. The warrior was clad in blue-trimmed silver, his armor plate festooned with alien totems, runes, and oath papers. His helmet was cast in the image of some horrific predator, the fanged maw biting down on a speaker grille. The colonel was little more than a pulped mass of flesh and cloth, a powered crushgaunt rammed through his skull. Slowly, painfully slowly, the warrior turned his gaze to the dumbstruck Cartann reservists around him. Some were only half-dressed, their faces unshaven and their hair unkempt. Power cells, missiles, and anti-air rounds littered the ground around them, haphazardly scattered.

When the warrior spoke, it was with the rumble of distant thunder, granted a metallic undertone by his helmet speaker. 'The wolves of Clan Ordo have claimed this world as their own. What tame dogs defend it?'

A junior officer, a lieutenant from Colonel ke Toure's household, snarled and moved to draw his blastsword. With speed granted by powered muscle fibers and combat stims, the Mandalorian cannoned his fist through the man's sternum. The lieutenant's hand never touched steel.

'I ask again,' the warrior said, his every syllable seething with barely restrained violence. With a sickening squelch, he extracted his forearm from the officer's chest cavity. 'What tame dogs defend this forsaken rock?'

Eirik waited for five seconds. None had the courage to speak. Unsurprising. Behind him, the rest of the kill-team landed. Haru Fett was the first to step forward, his armor corpse-white and lined with brass, the right arm bedecked in complex black shapes and patterns in mimicry of Concord Dawn tribal tattoos. Behind him was Agmund Ordo, clad in stormcloud gray, the pilot light on his plasma flamer flickering hungrily, radiation grenades and spare fuel tanks clinking against his armor as they hung from his load-bearing rig. Eirik's next two words sealed the fates of every man and woman in Gotha Air Force Base.

'Weapons free.'

* * *

To the south, amid the starscrapers of Old Cartann City, Arteo Gann and his team made landfall, their stolen shuttle coming to a halt and hovering above the helipad of the mayor's palace. Minutes ago, they had sent the city's flight control towers Imperial distress codes taken from the data cylinders on _Gallant_ 's officers. None of the weaklings in Cartann had the backbone to question an Imperial code, even under circumstances as suspect as this. An honor guard lined up to receive the Imperial shuttle, the mayor himself ascending to the palace roof with a coterie of aides and secretaries. The guards were nervous and twitchy, all of them combat virgins appointed through politics, nepotism, and duel victories rather than actual military experience. Even as the Shattered Clans rained down upon their world, these Cartann fools were dressed in their black ceremonial uniforms, all silver frogging and polished buttons. They stood rigidly at attention, holding rifles that had never once been fired in anger and blastswords that had never tasted blood outside the dueling circle. To their credit, however, they reacted quickly when they realized that the men behind the landing ramp wore no recognizable Imperial uniform. Quickly, but not quickly enough.

Gann's heavy weapon troopers were already prepped and braced when the ramp descended. Large-bore autocannons and light laser cannons opened up on the hapless guards, killing them before any of them had a chance to return fire. Then Gann descended, grabbing the mayor by the neck. The fat little man was sweating profusely, even in the dead of winter, jowls trembling in fear, pencil-thin mustache drooping.

'The sons of Clan Gann lay claim to this world. What fools have you brought to dispute our reign?'

'W-we were told the Mandalorians served the Empire!' the mayor gasped. 'We are your allies!'

'The Betrayed do not answer to the lapdogs of Skirata or Auchs,' Gann growled. He turned to his team's medic and dumped the mayor at his feet. 'You have twenty minutes to probe his mind for anything useful. Access codes, personal contacts, whatever. Kill the rest.'

'And after that?'

'We burn this city to the ground.'

* * *

For ten seconds, New Cartann City became the birthplace of a miniature star. Demolition charges set to a timed fuse detonated as _Gallant_ collided with the theater shield dome, setting free the caged hypermatter inside the cruiser's overheated reactor. Turbolaser power cells and tibanna gas reserves detonated, as did the countless other ship-killing munitions still stored on the warship. The hab blocks and factories outside the shield dome were the first to be annihilated, vaporized by leaked hypermatter as it made contact with realspace. Secondary explosions erupted deep beneath the earth, munitions factories' stores cooked off by the heat of the initial reaction. At the former site of Carrum-on-Karhus Industrial Works, siege artillery ammunition shook the ground, collapsing a part of the wall surrounding the city, burying hundreds of men and women. The soldiers and battle droids manning the city's intact walls died a millisecond later, incinerated even as the shield dome protected them from being totally atomized. Inside the city's massive shield generator pylons, work crews scrambled frantically to extinguish fires and evacuate wounded personnel.

Outside the shield dome, everything within a spherical five-kilometer radius of _Gallant_ simply ceased to exist-trees, buildings, water, earth, people. Many of those observing the detonation from a distance went blind and suffered severe skin burns. Sensors and comm devices of all kinds went down across the Peratorial Municipality as the air around the city was ionized, resulting in a massive electromagnetic pulse.

Across Adumar, Cartann's highly centralized military milled about in confusion, cut off from the upper echelons of command and their beloved spiritual and national liege.

* * *

In the skies above Halbegardia, Renno ke Serac listened in on the increasing panic in his comms. He swapped to an open frequency and hailed Red Flight.

'Antilles, this is Pewter Serpent Flightknife. My men and I must retreat.'

'Say again, Serpent,' Antilles replied incredulously, 'sounded like you said you're calling this fight off.'

Ke Serac grimaced, taking note of the dead gray icons on his flightknife's status board. They would be avenged later. 'We are. I understand that you Alliance pilots are a great deal more magnanimous than my Adumari kin. I request that you grant us this boon once.'

Fifty kilometers and two hundred meters above, Garik checked his own status readouts. Munitions expended, cannon heat levels high, reactor anemic, and fuel levels low. But he had a perfect angle on the Cartann Blade. The strike fighters were little more than burning wrecks on the ground and Serac's wingman was futilely attempting to shake Niklas off his tail.

'Stand by,' he said, continuing to track Serac's fighter. 'Red Eye, are you hearing this?'

'All of it and more,' Vera replied, her tone oddly distracted. 'Red Leader, advise you let them book it. Then get landed and reloaded. Prep for possible reassignment. Something's just come up.'

'Roger that. Could we get a bit more specific than "something?"'

'Still verifying sources, but the timetable for this entire operation may have just been thrown out the window. Someone just cockslapped Cartann with something high-yield and it's got their entire comm net in a panic.'

* * *

In distant Yedagon, Janson and Klivian, too, caught wind of the detonation, their X-wings airborne over the stormy arctic seas along Yedagon's northern coast.

'Four, are you getting this?' Janson asked, reading through the text scrolling down his helmet display.

'Yep. And judging by the sound of it, Resistance net's got the same news. Every goddamned city in the country is up in arms.'

'Guess the revolution started early.'

'No shit.'


	11. Desolation Row

10

Desolation Row

Deep within the slums of Halbegardia City, the Old Man presided over a putrid witches' brew of chemicals and spirits, retching in disgust even as he nursed the ramshackle still's heating unit. In the distance, every so often, the sound of a gunshot drowned out the noise of the city.

'Force almighty,' he groaned, 'this smells like piss.'

'So did all of Whiskey Jack's regular concoctions,' the droid countered. The little thing had haunted him throughout the painstaking distillation process, never initiating conversation, only responding.

How long had Jack been dead? Surely the man who had led him to the chemical plant had been the real deal.

The Old Man checked his wrist chronometer, a battered and spartan affair scratched and faded by age. The moonshine had turned amber and nearly transparent. It was done. Sighing, he shut off the heating unit and hooked the still up to an old canteen, filling the container to the brim. He fumbled for the instruction sheet Jack had left behind, scrabbling in the dark. There was something off about the writing, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

 _RTD immediately_ , it said at the end. No dosage instructions. Odd. He could have sworn that entry wasn't there before.

He grabbed a smudged shot glass from a cupboard and poured himself a measure of the poison.

'Well,' he said, 'bottoms up.'

He nearly spit the drink out as he downed the shot. It tasted like fire and ammonia and herbal bitters, and it burned as it went down. He'd had smoother drinks out of the gutter. He gagged and coughed, fighting to hold back the nausea as the chemicals in the drink started worming their way into his system. He chased it down with a sip of dirty water from the tap, then downed another shot. His vision swam and he felt a spike of fire lance into his mind. His innards burned hotter, more intensely than before. Despite the winter cold, he was drenched in sweat. He dropped to his knees, grasping at his head, then fell on his back when his legs gave way. Bloodshot, unfocused eyes saw, not a dingy bar in the slums, but river of ash. A sword of charred steel stood at its mouth, planted blade-down, while dying embers glowed feebly in the endless dark. With gnarled, arthritic hands, he grasped futilely for the blade as he sank into the ash, choking, gasping for air.

The spike went in further. He convulsed, locked in a rictus of pain, immobile but agonizingly, terrifyingly conscious of the gasoline in his veins, of the sickly and chemical stench of the still, of every single atom of every single cracked tile in the floor. It was mental and sensory overload, a supergiant contained in a thimble. Then as quickly as the pain came, it stopped. He came crashing down, his senses comfortingly yet dismally mortal once more. And as always, the droid was at his side. In one rusted manipulator limb, it held a glass of water.

'What happened?' he asked, taking the glass with shaking fingers.

'The first step on a long and treacherous road,' the droid beeped. 'On your feet. You have a train to catch.'

With a pained groan, the Old Man grabbed the counter and pulled himself up, muscles screaming as he moved. As he steadied himself, his hand found the crumpled instruction sheet. He read it again, and realized what was wrong with it. It wasn't in Jack's handwriting. It was his own.

 _Saint Merryn,_ it said next.

* * *

The city of Saint Merryn, situated on Halbegardia's border with Cartann, had been the first to fall during the initial invasions. Its outdated defenses, built sometime in the 80s ABY, folded in minutes under Cartann's Imperial-backed blitzkrieg during the opening months of the Sith-Imperial War. Once a thriving center of art, commerce, and travel, St. Merryn today was a colorless, drab shell of its former self. The great cathedral in the city center was a bombed-out ruin, its stained glass windows shattered and its spires toppled. The fountain in its atrium, formerly a beautiful marble representation of an old Halbegardian king, had been obliterated by a heavy artillery shell, and the pearly white stone columns that surrounded it were laser-burned and shrapnel-scarred. The paintings in the basilica were no more, burnt away during the fighting or weathered and faded by exposure to the elements.

Niklas sighed as he and Garik passed the cathedral. 'Damn waste of a work of art,' he said.

Garik grunted in assent, more concerned with getting out of the cold and making contact with the local rebel cell. The wind chill was brutal this high up in Halbegardia's eastern highlands. Their scrounged thermals and rags were of little comfort. Even more worrying was the effect the cold would have on their weapons. Both men kept under their jackets a concealed ACP-45 repeater, a cheap particle array auto that could be slapped together in someone's garage with spit and tape and parts from a grease gun. While it wasn't the worst gun in the galaxy, the most common lubricant used by Halbegardian rebel gunsmiths and armorers had rather poor temperature tolerances compared to Imperial and Cartann standard-issue. In weather like this, it was entirely possible for the guns' lube to gum up and possibly freeze.

Cartann and Imperial presence had been stepped up since the attack on Cartann's heartland. An armored speeder stood watch at a street corner as an Imperial lieutenant and a fireteam of Cartann soldiers started kicking down doors at a hab complex. Along one wall, a straight horizontal line of blaster burn marks indicated the site of a series of executions by firing squad. A Duros, Weequay, and two humans were led, bruised and handcuffed, into a waiting transport speeder by a Kel Dor dressed in Imperial grays. Vera's intel sources had told them St. Merryn was a hive of rebel activity. So where the hell was the rebel activity? Cartann and Imperial forces looked and sounded more like they were conducting routine police state matters rather than engaging armed dissidents. Not a single firefight, not a single Cartann or Imp corpse.

'Got a bad feeling about this, Gary.'

'Same here.'

Deeper and deeper into the city they went, passing more and more burnt and bombed buildings. St. Merryn had suffered greatly compared to Halbegardia City. Where most of the capital still had heat, water, and power, most of St. Merryn had no such luxuries. Here and there, a pack of vagrants clustered around bonfires. Neighbors bickered over food and fuel. An emaciated old man played a slow, quiet tune on a keybed in the middle of the street for scraps of food and coin. Eventually, they arrived at a building that had once been a school, now nothing more than a blackened husk. Holos had been hung up in one doorway. Beneath them sat an array of candles, trinkets, and coins. Garik tried not to pay too much attention to the holos and tributes, to the grim reminders of what might have happened to his sisters back home on Corellia.

'Wait out here,' he said.

'How come?'

'You know how you said you had a bad feeling about this?'

'Alright,' Niklas said, clearly worried. 'but if this goes south-'

'Then you'll take the X-wings, lay low, and link up with Vera. If one of us is scrubbed, the other needs to make sure our end of the Adumar op stays on track.'

Not waiting for a reply, Garik made his way inside. The interior of the school was a tomb, silent and dead save for the occasional creak of the blackened floorboards and the crunch and tromp of his boots. In several parts, the ceiling had caved in, sealing off numerous corridors and rooms while leaving some others exposed to the weather, ash and snow mingling in equal parts under the open sky. Gray and white and black. Colors of death. Colors of the Empire.

As he rounded a corner, Garik spotted a lone human at the end of the corridor, smoke wafting from a cigar in his hand.

'Tell me, my friend,' the man called out, 'how is Adumar?'

'Adumar sleeps,' Garik said, the appropriate response to the challenge question.

'And may it never wake,' the man replied.

Before Garik could react, there was a loud bang and a flash of blue light. Every fiber in his body seized up, suddenly frozen. The force of the stun blast knocked him flat on his back. An armored Imperial trooper stepped over him, cloaking device deactivated, and bashed him in the face with the stock of his rifle. The world went dark.

* * *

An ocean away, the Yedagon Confederacy was up in arms. Fires twinkled on the horizon and smoke rose in great plumes like ink smears across the orange twilit sky.

'This is too early,' Aron said. 'Are the rebel cells in this country even ready for war?'

Ike fiddled with his navicom, setting a course for Yedagon City. 'I don't know, Four, but their leaders certainly seem to think so. Set a course for the capital and open the taps. If any place is going to become the heart of the rebel movement, it's there.'

The two X-wings, ebony and ivory, streaked towards Yedagon's heart, breaking the sound barrier as they pushed the throttles to full and kicked on the afterburners. Trees, hedgerows, and fields shot past in a blur, the two starfighters hugging the terrain to avoid setting off Cartann and Imperial high-atmo and low-orbit sensor systems.

'ETA?' Aron asked.

'Three minutes. Weapons check.'

'Nine torps, all green,' Aron said, glancing at his weapons console. 'Two beam drones, full charge.'

'Nine torps, all green,' Ike replied, placing a digital marker point on a point in the sky. 'ECM at full. Climb to my waypoint in three, two, one.'

Aron complied, pulling back hard on the stick, his X-wing climbing like a homesick angel, afterburners glowing blue in the fading light. As they closed in on the city, target markers materialized on his helmet display, pointing out aircraft and vehicles broadcasting known Cartann and Imperial IFF codes.

'Stump,' he said, 'can you get me a comms link to any rebel groups in the city?'

His astromech beeped an affirmative, running a search on nearby comm frequencies. After a few seconds, Stump captured a series of frequencies and set them on broadcast.

'Yedagon, Yedagon,' Aron announced, 'this is Alliance starfighter unit Red Flight, on station to assist. I say again, starfighter unit Red Flight on station for CAS. Does anyone copy?'

Most didn't respond, awash with the noise of weapons discharge and screams. Stump cut out the overloaded frequencies and replayed the message. This time, one of the channels spoke up, fuzzed by static but clear enough to understand.

'Red Flight, this is the Confed Home Resistance Army, what is your location?'

'Holding pattern above Yedagon City, Confed. Standing by for tasking.'

A few seconds of muted conversation off-mic, then, 'We hear you, Red Flight. Unfortunately, most of our forces are deprived of comms and targeting equipment. You are cleared to prosecute any and all vehicle and airborne targets as you please within the city.'

Aron frowned, checking the feed on his starfighter's sniper pod. With the smoke, close-quarters fighting, and maze-like road layout, targeting was going to be a bitch, even with all the sophisticated sensor gear in the galaxy. 'Be advised, Confed, some of our airstrikes may get danger close. Confirm any and all?'

'Confirmed any and all targets, Red Flight. Our people know the risks, and we lack sufficient SAMs and ATGMs to counter the enemy's forces.'

'Roger that, Confed,' Aron said, 'Red Flight out.'

'You heard the man.' Ike began selecting torpedo strike targets on his instrument panel. 'Time to clean this city out. Weapons free, Four.'

Aron jettisoned the parasite drones attached to his X-wing's flanks and set them to independent mode, watching them fall away into the city to begin their hunt as he and Ike loosed their ordnance. The first targets to go were the tanks and gunships moving up the city's main central thoroughfare, obliterated by torpedoes and Red Four's drone strikes. Shielded by the jamming system in Ike's starfighter, the two X-wings followed up with torpedo strikes on the biggest SAM carriers and sensor vehicles they could find-Imperial-issue Longshot and Ghost Eye trucks. Torps expended, the two then dove towards the half-flightknife of Blade-55s moving to intercept them. The first two went down quickly, splashed by laser fire at a distance thanks to the X-wings' superior cannon range and targeting systems. A third went down under a hail of autoblaster fire from Aron's drones, which paused in their ground attack efforts to protect their host. Number four ended up as a fireball, taking a shot to its fuel supply during the head-to-head, and five and six died during the ensuing turn-fight, unable to outmaneuver the prototype Alliance craft.

Before the two pilots could resume CAS operations, however, Ike spotted something on his sensor board.

'Contacts approaching at high speed,' he called out. 'Bearing three-three-zero high. Too many to count.'

'I see them,' Aron said, watching the newcomers' orbital entry through his sniper pod's sensor feed. 'One TIE series and a large number of smaller unknowns, most likely unmanned.'

'Any TIE model we know?'

'Negative,' Aron said. From a distance, the craft appeared to be a combination of multiple old marks. It had an elongated, pill-shaped cockpit pod similar to a Striker or Advanced, but its two wing panels resembled a cross between an Interceptor's and an Eta-2's, but its maneuvers and speed far exceeded anything save for the experimental model Garik and Niklas encountered during a previous op.

Official Sienar R&D papers, declassified long after the war, would later reveal its designation to be 'TIE Experimental M880.' Inside her cockpit pod, Aida Rashon sat in a meditative pose, legs crossed and fingers clasped together, palms up. The interior of the craft was a full, spherical holocam display of her starfighter's surroundings and in place of a control yoke and instrument panel, she wore an experimental neurohelmet, nerve plugs hooked up to jackpoints in her temples and upper spine. Behind her seat was a bank of droid brains, working in concert with hers to control her starfighter and the swarm of UCAVs accompanying her. All of this was part of a COFFIN system, an experimental design built to allow pilots to control their craft purely through mental impulse. It had taken decades of trial and error, numerous corpses and crashes, and billions of credits, but at last, in the heavens above Adumar, Sienar had finally done the impossible. As she looked upon her opposition, she smiled.

Two obsolete relics and a pair of primitive, kitbashed parasite drones. How quaint. It was almost as sad as Phennir's insistence on his own outdated toys and techniques. As she issued the command to attack, her smile only widened. This was going to be fun.


End file.
